John 3:16

Sundays are spent kissing the palms of Jesus
while reading Revelations
to the holes buried in them, looking through each one
like a glimpse through heaven-

dark clouds circling a kingdom in ruins
pillars of fire extinguished to powdery ash
white ichor and ocean rain turning into a river
full of broken church windows

and God’s body floating by,
a dove perched on his stomach
weeping

I am a tombstone,
Dawn's hair pouring into the darkness of my pupils
and my mouth speechless
from the emptiness of my prayers.
Knees draped in bruises and fingernails swollen from biting.