How could I not live in this world
where I speak to the dead and
they speak to me, and intercede –
if I would, if I pray –
even if I never knew them?
How could I not sign on for angels
and parted seas and tents in the desert,
and the last prophet who was the greatest,
but less than every child still to come?
How could I not want every chance repeatedly
to see and forgive – to tap out deeds of love
and be propped up – to pick up my mat and
soar, dammit, in a sky of mercy?!
I could not not turn to you
or live in any other world.
This is the world,
and I claim it.