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Sunday night

I live my days as acts of forgiveness

for myself and whoever else will 

accept the offering. Stones 

skipping, propulsive and weighted. 

Interrupting the surface. 

 

I forgive my legs as they carry us down 

Wells Street. My eyes as swinging doors 

and window displays shine on a wanderer 

asking for change. My throat as I hum a 

snowy lullaby, her cheek against mine.

 

Forgiveness for the times I did not 

rise to the occasion. Could not bear

the question. Found the lacerating 

edge of my tongue. Left unwashed 

dishes in my mother’s sink.

 

Until I found sunbeams in the dishwater, 

and other forgivenesses tucked between 

window slants, I waited in defiance. Now 

I string them like cafe lights. Alchemize 

the night. Dance under golden graces.

 

I forgive my heart as I look up, past building 

tops, and remember she once swallowed 

the sky. Stardust blinking at stardust, white 

knuckles soften. Brought along gentle back wind, 

a whisper grows: “Continue anyway.”