To begin with faith, proof in a mustard seed

I haven't prayed much lately. Jesus, I

learned, is otherwise  occupied, a

forcefield  in an old textbook, spinning

science: energy –  kinetic: resulting from

motion -  in other words, contingent: Jesus

depends – Something has to precede

him: seven days, saying grace,  

Mary pregnant, not of her own volition. I'll

admit, I've never seen a camel pass through the

eye of a needle, but I've seen many a rich man

make their own heaven and walk into it.

Comorbidity

Knee deep in March and early morning. 

Sick again for the third time 

this month. My body fights me sometimes. 

Sometimes is often. Often is too much. 

I see the outside watch through  my

window. But do not let it in. 

There is nothing to be seen  that

I have not already witnessed. 

The trees are the colours they were yesterday. 

The trees are home and do not move. 

I let myself sleep 

and wake. My hands 

stroke my hair in the bathroom mirror. Of

course, the pool of water collected below the

sink 

is just water. Not a lake or the first act 

of March or a holy body. The water 

makes me think of ice-cream, wet flavor.

Marvel at how appetites lose when we are sick.

Still, 

my sickness is so well fed.  I hear my name 

being called and know at least 

that I am still living. Even though the voice

calling is fever talking in my head. Isn’t it a

privilege 

to be called by what you were named? To be

led into feeling alive by the name you were 

given? I am glad that the night still enters my

house. That blackness sees me and wants me

seen. In sickness and in health, I let myself  be

myself. I lay naked, unshielded as my body

becomes  a war turning in my bed. I am a war

turning  in my bed. 

I follow my aches with my eyes, 

wide down my body’s uneven chambers. I say

out loud 

for whatever can hear me, thank you for this

body, for how it lives and lived. I put my hand

against myself and rest.