Air to Ask

The name God gave you

was the name they told you

when you were born.

But it never fit.


Year after year swept past you-

bringing rain and leaving

rust and cracks in the pavement.

They grew-  like frost or wild fires- in petals.

The fibers of the name shrank

under waves of fog and sun.

Or perhaps you grew.

But as the lacy flowers

bloomed and crumbled

the yarn pulled tighter

clawing your arms


when you tried to breathe.


Air was too much to ask

of God

who bid you be still and quiet, cursing,

As he ate his own stolen soul-

in secret-

As the wind walked on the waves-

As the bread and fishes multiplied themselves-


lost in the murmur and swell of all names

rolling through their mouths

the powers rejoiced in an unknown name.

Unknowing , a heart pronounced the word.


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