She had a stroke of genius,
when she traced the collarbone to sternum,
that place of muscle and faith.
She kissed the scars I earned as a child –
playing victim in the backyard,
acting daredevil in the front –
and she said they taste just like Alexandria.
At God’s feet are all things,
like this girl embracing me,
this girl blowing into me,
playing her instrument,
and I make the sound of a child.