Lungs huff morning. Sun drips in pores—honey in tea—reeks of rum. Backs warped—pink Solo cups floating in bins—wasted. Eyes raw—coins thumbed by scholars who can’t let go of bottles—trip over papers strewn across crumbs on sheets on bodies on beds, and then—thesis: the cure is—
Non-believer, your lashes fashion mystery—stories of thorny eyes, silk wine, blood spraying stone. Non-believer, you are the anchor in God’s ruby sea. Your arms are pillars, your mouth a cross, your skin scripture. Non-believer, you bleed Truth. The Gospel’s in your hips and fists, under chewed nails, traced fingerprints. You are the incarnate Unknown—something you hate so much—what I love most.