This poem was originally published in Pathos Literary Magazine, Vol. 18, no. 2 (Spring 2024).

I'm building convents
everywhere I go
leaving trails of dark robes
veils and wish-worn rosaries and
piles of our baby blankets
walling in the fugitive
species evolved for
lying languid in mycelial embraces.
Even if hidden
and a little sorrowful
the cavern quenches our thirsts with
stalactites dripping like breasts and
maps of mist-carved paths and chambers
paint-drenched and clay-coated hands
laughing about death or dying
lying sick in sylvan laps.
My eaves are ivied
and I leave the dirt on the floor for
I will not sweep out the divine
with the debris
corners crack open just so
the rain can slither in and
give its fertile greetings
lying face down 'til we hear the Word.