The sky is a purple I’ve only ever seen in dreams
the wind is calling out to me in coos I might identify as warmth
and moths have begun to weep at the resignation of my overhead lamp
the room is filled with ebony albeit hushed and mute

My love
lies in my grandma’s contorted palms
and the deep tortured roots of all our connected hearts
our time is tied to this earth
tied to names and cities we will never own
our bodies sacred and seething
we are pressed flowers
bound to bibles
and woven into memory

I kept every fan from that summer
shields against the frothy and dignified Texas heat
sun shining emerald and melting my chest into the weight of butter
stained glass figures completed by sky
church hats peering down at me like halos
grandma said God is in everything

I can still feel the ridges and grooves
kneaded into my scalp
the stiff joints of our dining room table
my family’s hands coming together
in bellied laughter and quiet love
sweet gospel
say grace