but there is no Bible, no
God, only

a broom to sweep
hair from the floor.

I beautify the house

the daisies of my eyes,
strew them cross

the kitchen counter,
down the front steps,

in the bath—treachery
is no excuse for

homeliness. Spring is
inevitable; they will

bloom again. There is
no temple to raze

to the ground, no
enemies to lash

this body of braille,
so the story goes

something like this:
a man moves in

darkness, to darkness,
a woman has scissors

for hands, the only
prayer is a meeting

of metal                an
infinity loop of sound.


Tafisha Edwards