Becoming Whole Again
The body is a workshop of returning—
scar as syllabus, breath as bell.
I inventory what remains:
one stubborn laugh,
two rooms of dawn,
a map inked in small survivals.
The future knocks with gentle knuckles.
I open.
Inside is an orchard that doesn’t mind my hunger.
I eat, and the fruit remembers me.
Core after core, I plant the seeds—
and the ground, grateful for company,
promises to carry their names.
River Towpath Gospel
Cyclists glide like commas,
pausing the sentence of afternoon.
The canal keeps its vow of stillness;
the Potomac hums in low church keys.
I walk the cinder margin between then and next,
pockets chattering with lucky stones.
Every mile marker is a psalm
that forgot its punctuation.
I read it anyway, out loud,
and the turtles blink amen from the logs.
Even my shadow loosens its jaw.
I baptize my ankles in river light
and come up fluent in maybe.
