I admit there are some things I’ll never understand, like how “lift” keeps this plane in the air. Why people clap when it lands. How internet traverses the hollows between us to alert the little devil in my phone that I have four missed calls concerning my blood’s absence of alkaline. My mother, dying and thanking God. I'm unsure what it means – to know the minute betrayal of your cells and lift your arms in worship. I don’t think I’m meant to know. My God is vengeful, I know this. I was made in His image and told to praise what He didn’t prevent. Miscalculus of platelets. Miscoagulation of mercy. For years my mother rehearsed her pill box ritual, and still. Epithelial Judas. Still. Timbrel and dance. Still. Eleventh hour. Still. Thank you. My mother on the other side

  of her midnight. Thank you. My blood tempered

  by her appetite. My hands uplifted. I don’t know why.

                                    the hollows between

          My

worship         is vengeful, I know this.           praise       didn't

prevent             Miscoagulation   mercy         rehearsed

         and still.

My mother                             tempered by her appetite.

My hands uplifted.

                                  hollow

                            praise     didn't

prevent           mercy.           rehearsed

         and still.

My mother

    hands uplifted.

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