Some things make sense 

but also don’t, simultaneously,

like blasting O Holy Night in July, ninety whole degrees

of hell incarnate. It works only because it shouldn’t. 

Like two wrongs colliding to form a singular right,

two opposite somebodies designing a likeness

called love. Or how sometimes I still choose 

to pour over letters from an ancient flame, 

diving back into the clutches of a dead life

that can no longer warm me. It is foolish, I know, 

but wise to me. It is precisely how 

I find presence in the absence of him,

sacred music in his infinite silences,

some invented, good-enough version of heaven 

to keep me company in this cruel, 


unholy July.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: