Eugenia Leigh

When the sky unhinges, how will we survive?

Who will extract the cancers
from our lips, the bombs from our arteries?

When we make delirious love
in the closets of our small, lovestarved God,
may he honor

our passion. Forgive
our poisons. May he unplug our churches—
fling every cracked bulb

back into the sky. And with each re-tinseled constellation, may he grow.
Like a hot organ. May he watch us come, come to understand

worship. That to worship is to survive is to be

wholly human, wholly
gripping the other hand.