Church, Altar, Hymn

Sometimes we speak different languages, avoid
each other’s eyes. Fall asleep out of order,

running on strange schedules. Step in each
other’s shoes by mistake. I finish a video

game in tears, want to turn and tell you of loss
and hope, as though you’re unfamiliar

with either. You jot down a memory, turn
the words into a poem, send it to me sometime

in the night’s center, when passing cars
on the interstate have faded to a staccato rhythm.

Your breathing slows beside me, body within
the circle of mine, and I whisper promises to seep

into your dreams, catch you unawares and swaddle
your rabbit heart. I’ll bring you flowers to crown

your head, starlight raining in your eyes. Make
a church of quiet nights, an altar of Sunday

afternoons. Sing all the hymns of saints forgotten,
bless each subtle movement of your hands. And when

the funeral procession winds through the streets
of your hometown, I’ll raise a flag that once
had fallen, hallow this muddy ground.