Tomorrow we resume the practice of turning water into wine

One shoulder rises
a treacherous mountain
against the valley
A warped spine
wrings her lungs
until she has no breath
to pray
It crumples her stomach
which is lucky
because there’s no food here,
even if she did
have an appetite

Crammed
with odors and bodies,
personal boundaries
in our provisional clinic
are forgiven
like adolescent sins
My hands reach forth,
graze her whenever she passes
I will them to perform
a Post Testament miracle

On the other side
of the broken window,
rust colored Kenyan dust
dances in the air surrounding
those still waiting

The old woman,
who is not her grandmother,
summons her;
crooked walk, crooked walk home

***

MD Marcus is a freelance writer and poet who loves keys, the color blue, and a good nude illusion. Her work has appeared on Salon as well as in The Drabble, Rat’s Ass Review, Communicators League, Subterranean Blue Poetry, Motherhood May Cause Drowsiness, among others. Please read everything she writes and visit her on Instagram or at mdmarcus.com.