​NEEDLE AND THREAD

We're journeying

Through

something,

not just a time

and space-like

nothing

but something

that needles

the string through

my skin

and yours

and our neighbor's,

pot-bellied

in his Pontiac,

forgetting his

hand holds

the ability

to wave.

I used to think

in terms

of severed

scraps of

fabric,

all of us,

scattered

heartbeats

and useless

religions,

and I

blended

my theories

and forced

them

through

the straw

to make you

drink.

But then you kept

talking

to Jesus

three-years-old,

in your bedroom,

in a house,

where Jesus

wasn't asked

to live.

How did you

meet Him?

What did He say?

And could

He thread

our rusted needle

and mend

us the way

your tender

heart

had hoped

us

to be?