No one stops here anymore, even the staff has left
me as the visitors do, for days and days, unmade in limbo…
I forget how it feels to hold a body inside my gown. I’m
weightless in my dress: smoke-rinsed brown blankets
sun-stained curtains, sometimes my songs (fluorescent
hums of my bathroom) turn into—
Lord, if one is lonely enough, is everything?—
a prayer— a work toward the salvation of another’s
hands that might bless me with touch or help me find—
Lord, when will I find my own hands?
My illuminated vacancy is embarrassing!
Yes, I want to be filled by people
I can love. Lord lift from my tongue
this absence of deliverance and place
me into purpose, companion
me as shelter. Lord I want delight
to dance in the eyes of the next one who enters
as if a house could never be as beautiful
could never come full-stock, like— I am
fifty-feet-from-the-pool, full-on ready.
Lord, send someone to take the last
cigarette butt leftover in my ashtray
and make me new again, Hallelujah!
Amen. Wash me in your cleaning waters, Lord, remake
me into a palace, I’m ready to hear someone call me home.