I rub my thumb over a St. Jude prayer card,
the irony is not lost on me

my Truths have alway gotten knotted around my ribcage 
on their way to my mouth. 

my teeth always biting your name into my tongue 
voice never seeming to hold out long enough
to explain myself. 

Maybe I’ll learn to make bread  
Learn to knit red and black caps 
To bounce knife tips between my open fingers
in vacancy of communicative skills 

Maybe I’ll just keep stroking this Saint
I’m sure you’ll feel some part of it