it happens as husband asks over fried fish, potatoes, “do you ever think babies speak in tongues?” (son singing to his fork, to his hand, to the sky)

it happens as i lie in the bath of bubble, seeing nothing but poke of knee and womb, and i’m tracing the scars, the one from the dominican where i burned my calf on a scooter, the other from capture the flag when i was eight sliding into grass, and my womb rises and the life inside it seems to giggle and the ceiling is blue cloud

it happens on the slide, in the squeal of boy, in the wrap of hand and the picking up and the doing it all over again in the playground by the library by the school by the co-op by the school by the church

it happens in the weeping at home, the wondering about purpose, in the sermon on Job and the death of a young boy, in a community dressed in black for the seeking, in the fear of God that rises like my womb from the waters of the earth

it. wisdom. happens.
in the less of me, and the more of him.


i bow now in thanks, with ann, in the hopes this practice might become genuine, and remember all those who have nothing yet still raise their hands to heaven:

251. the life of my son(s), still breathing, by grace
252. the hand of my husband, holding mine
253. the healing of body from bronchitis
254. sweet potatoes and turnips mixed with butter mixed with sugar
255. a phone call from my mother just as i was missing her
256. woodstove heat
257. people in church stopping to welcome this misfit girl
258. art hung in church by this misfit girl
259. books, books, books
260. long baths when so many go without water…