At night there are sounds of a thunderstorm
rising like white steam from my father’s driveway
fills the room with the prickling fever of August

sheets groping

the pillow screams until the Ringing comes Ringing through arms and legs and down lungs fog reflecting green and bells are muffled into drums slowing into hidden groans behind leaves

chest as sharp as my mother’s heirlooms shrieks are quiet And sound more like silence
don’t forget that it’s all the same
the same wiring through cell membranes

all the same water to the clean morning grass
that water weighs about a ton a ton too little for some
God holds you down when you are still
with his face to your face

breaking your heart into stain-glass shingles
because it is all the same black crusted coals left on the skin hardening like scabs

the man with the black book with the golden edged pages was right
about uncontrollable inhalations
and spiritual navigations
but wooden pews are the thorns of the rose
and the gift of revelation never came with that body and blood of our savior

if you were to look under the carpet
where all the cracked windows are swept
you will see yourself sleeping with arms tucked into your knees
and the shrieking won’t make a sound
when it tells you
that the only pathway to God is through Satan