God holds my body like the boy did

when he took me by the waist and lifted me from the concrete he spun me

in circles i was a single chrysanthemum against his chest.

when spring break came i curtseyed

into the louisiana dirt

never ceases in its longing:

it wanted to startle me

to be my only cradle and

the palms that pushed me off the cliff and into the mouth of

God.

i saw this: he holds the arms of North south East west under his tongue the babbling intonations of angels

the angels don’t babble.

they know how to swim.

we walked to Mass in the morning when it was still so dark

(in secret, we linked arms because it was still so dark) but after

when God’s Son jumped to his feet on the hardwood floors

and bled his sunrise into the palms of my hands i rubbed open my eyes

and ran into the cemetery

and swooned

i asked You for a blink in my direction   a single finger.

You gave me something   swelling

in Your upturned hand    

                                         You held my body.

the roof of God’s mouth is a bed of Yellow flowers whose name i can’t pronounce.

no one dies too early.