I

sit

cross-

legged with

Kahlil Gibran’s 

poems sprawled

open-faced on my 

lap, a prophet gazing

skyward like there’s a 

sermon inscribed on my 

bedroom ceiling, like there’s a

prayer to be read above us both, 

scrolls unroll beside a broken fan,

blessed tiles or holy ghosts, there’s a

message to bathe in, slick like oil, drenched

and light aflame; pray with a prophet 

and his doctrine glazes your lips

with a sacrosanct sweetness

melancholy minor raised up

to a canopy of spiderwebs

and chipping paint, see

the coming of the ship,

sing on love, on laws,

on joy and sorrow,

on marriage, on

freedom, on

children, 

on 

time.