When I finish collecting
bits of conversation,
when you angle
your body up and toward
the sun,
the light will pause
and adjust just for you.
This solitary movement
is collapsible. You always
meant to lie hidden
behind words
but you question
your hand against the table,
your own salvaged
sketching of trees. You painted
pictures to stay still
longer, to extend into this
pale embrace,
That July,
you watched your prayers
come in the form of
wounded animals,
heaven-sent
they burrow
even now.
This poem “Heaven-sent” originally appeared in Canadian Literature 214 (Autumn 2012): 67.
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