by Stacy Boe Miller

Muzzles gone white on old dogs church,

quadriceps screaming uphill

on gravel bike church, garbanzos dancing

in their dry rattles church, his finger finally

finding your clitoris church, alone

on the toilet birthing

a dead baby church, church of the first time

you kissed a girl, Twinkle Twinkle Little Star

fiddled poorly in a park at

night church, tomatoes

ripe in a garden you planted

with your mother church, jukebox

that still takes quarters church,

your father might be dying

church, sleeping with your children in

your blood stained sheets church,

church of slow dancing

with your son, lying to siblings

church, not knowing it is the last

time you will nurse

a child church, church of finding

an arrowhead and losing it,

being ripped open

by a baby church, church of the lump

in your breast, church of finally loving

your legs, becoming the mother

of another woman’s child church, where

two or more are gathered in

the best dive bar in Idaho church, there

I will be also timing your in-breath

with his out-breath, filling your lungs

with his air on this rock I will build

my church.