i can’t stop yawning in holy places. the buddha smiles down on me, his attention warm, but i cannot look back. my own mouth moves not in prayer nor any other word fit for a god. if i were to be judged i’d be damned not for my sins but my indifference: jesus nailed upon the cross, bleeding, and i stay asleep.
and so life goes on. a baby cries in the temple and names the ways our bodies stay wanting. all of us dying to loose our voices, souls coiled up hungry just under the surface. and you’re asking me: darling, won’t you open your mouth.