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