FREED VERSE

His cowboy hat lays on the bedside floor.
He is a wrinkle in time, in space, in face;
a canyon for a cheekbone,
a kettlebell for a skull.

A ‘howdy’ escapes his lips.
He tries to enunciate, but his dimples are too heavy
for his atrophied cheeks to bear.

He does not recognize me.
He greets me all the same.

His eyes are moonfed, spoonfed,
by the God I do not see.
To him, my heart spillith
with Corinthians, Job, Psalms for days.
I’d rather he see a flickering halo
on this strange angel
lest he believe my veins run black
with Judas’s lies.
A Raven for my God, a daydream as my savior,
projections of the pagan
hidden between the pages

of my life, my work, my je-ne-sais!
Hard to pray for your teddy-bear-rascal,
puppy-dog-pumpkin,
bullet-casting-princess
of a little girl
when she grows limbs made of fiber you cannot digest.