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Sanctuary
There is a place
where
pith is skin
and
literature is lingerie
and
gospel is redheads
and
cantaloupe seeds
and
accent-soaked aliens.
Heat lingers
from
the hands
and
the hymns rooted
in
mosaic pillars
and
contraband corn syrup
and
raw dewy youth.
I learned everything I know
from
a wheelchair
and
two wifebeaters
behind
an apple pie anthill
where
white frosting cures pink eye
and
algae grows on feet.
Born in the East
but
alive in the South
is
a oasis
where
God is eccentric
and
eternal
and
so am I.
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