Who is made of autobiography, in which I write 

         in one small place.

The wounds of trinity narrowed, shrank. The bottle-capped word of pain

because there’s only this that hurts

without testament. 

Like something unborn,

turn around, face me; inception. 

What is this I have demanded strength of–

Whose do I grieve the

newness from. Grieve the namelessness of. 

My kept space in a prayer like

a seat saved, marked in chapters 

bridged by skin tissue and bandages.

I see, in some storm I introduce developing,

whose sacrifice I’m escaping through. But how do you write the words saving you? 

Like something afraid, 

be brave, let me begin describing

love first.