Expedition

One day to discover my arms can’t make the helm turn. Islands of water stains on the ceiling tiles like topographical maps of lost explorers. To meet my legs and feet as the paralyzed do: strappy extravagances in pants and socks.

The bread’s torn and the rot’s in every barrel now.

Always half waiting for Jesus to return. To hear a tap at the cabin window and not be able to turn my head to see if it’s Him.

I’ll pinch my lips together like my father did.

I’ll stare forward. Please, God.

Crois-tu à la chance? the green owl asks only me.