32:3

I poked holes into my palms
when it came time to pray.
Hoping that maybe some of the holy liquid
would drip
    into the cathedral floors
and into bones holding up sinners &
saints. I thought
God would understand my sentiment  of knowing
departed  people  and the segments
that drove them mad. 

The Sundays that stood churchless
in the yard, outside by dad's 
overpriced tools
always told me stories of the whale
that swallowed the man that swallowed
his pride that ate his faith
and ended up a new whale with hands
as big as baskets. 

To this day he hands out bread
in his fresh-baked book of poems
and waits for me to poke more
tiny holes into my tiny hands. 

Half-praying a please.