I am the sacrifice of Elijah,
a young bull laid on the altar
with water twelve jars full
poured out over, trenches catching
and brimming with all that
the saturated wood could not hold.

And Elijah watches, matches laid aside,
staying his hand from starting any flame,
so that when Your fire comes down,
engulfing my heart with a love so strong
so as to outlast any earthly trial,
he will know that it was only by Your hand.

Running at sea level in the June humidity

feels like your skin is burning off —
surrounded by boiling water,
which is actually the sweat
that has evaporated off your body
and is clinging still in the air,
nano-meters away,
because too many water molecules
are already occupying the space.
and the air threatens to drown your lungs,
so unused to an abundance of oxygen
pressing in on them and
disrupting their normal rhythm.
but it would be ridiculous to say
that you are out of breath.


yesterday I saw a line of young geese
trundle into the water after their mother
perfectly timed

like a set of synchronized swimmers
and I thought how nice it must be
to follow after with such certainty

because it seems the only times
i have gone anywhere with such assurance
was when I was walking out into the unknown

completely on my own
that inner sense of belonging from knowing
that this was my path alone