all we have to separate the mind from the body
is light and dark: the reaching of god’s hands

over the world. i imagine that even the sun
asks be tucked in at night. & how could god refuse

another bed time story. a chance to be heard,
a chance to say “I know exactly why you exist,

why you need to be touched just to make sure
that you are still here.” we are not all light.

i know a boy so empty his father’s fists
       pass right through him as if punching the dust

from his ribcage. his broken breath a reminder
       that he still has something to lose in this world.

& i know a father broken and praying to a god
       he cannot recognize as his own,

holding the darkness in his church-shaped hands
        which soften in daylight

he kisses the blood off his stained glass knuckles
        & prays for morning. his god is heavy with

the weight of history, with the burden we know
as genesis. but how could the body, light and vulnerable

refuse to touch darkness. how could the body refuse
        to know that it is still here.