Thirteen tiles.
That’s how many it takes
from the floor to my eyes.
I’ve become familiar with
the grout and lines,
fist-sized squares
five-by-five.
Day by day we meet again,
fingers touch the tiles
like shaking hands;
my palm print there,
as if proof I’m here,
but moments later
washed away as if
I’d never be again.
I reach out, forward,
supported by the
characters on the
deluge-drawn stone:
comforted at being alone.
Should God exist,
would he listen here,
where I raise my head
and fix my gaze ahead
like a doe’s eyes
caught in a glare?
Baptized by the day,
praying through the rain,
soothed away from daily
baths of freezing cold
and dried by flame,
I hear the roar of water
almost whisper my name…
Instead I swim
in the dull, but glittering, beads
that stream their tails
across the tiles
like winded sails
across the sea.
And through tears
and in my dreams
I find the ground
beneath my feet;
drips streak off
water-soaked wings,
open my eyes to everything.