A telepathic throat
gargles stories and
spits fables’ fish into a watery abyss.
The surface shimmer draws us in
to fall, dream, dive, swim
as the storyteller spins us.
We balk at the tales of winged-hearts.
Love doesn't exist.
We swear by this as God disappears,
erases slowly while we wake up in season.
Love drops to the ground
with winter all around.
Snow covers and closes our eyes.
Pronounces what has died.
In the lens the pupil frames
a frozen image of my flame.
Could it possibly survive?
Rise up and be alive?
The same old story persists
where we make the same old wish.
Devils, misfits, do-gooders, cherubs and chumps,
wonder if God is make-believe, a dream or a magician's trick.
We cross our fingers and chant the scriptures
until The Almighty is real or a lie we can live with.
To be, to be, is miracle enough for me.
My cat chews on this paper—naps on every draft of this poem.
I worship her.