When O was young, his folks machina’d
to church where O sat, and knelt,
and stood, and sat again. Flibberty
in the presence of speech, he believed
in the power of the word and like others,
squirmed after speaking. Were there
one powerful divine who birthed the wind
so he could drop in syllables?

That might’ve explained why his words
for the flabbergast collecting
in his shoulders as O repositioned
his respect were peculiar
on the stark pews. He bowed into
the litany. When O stirred his mouth,
he was hushed. It was wrong again.
It was homesick for the lungs.

The priest held up that chalice, and
O knew he hoped to follow the same ... lift.
But he was too articulate.
O felt that if he’d left god’s lips,
he should’ve shook the seat beneath him.
But soon he faded, straining to catch
his voice, and soon he took to staying
up late, and walking outside until bright.

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