On Houses
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.