“In the Crying”

At the top of our silent lungs,
burning in unquenched flames,
returning home from a stint on
underwhelming Neptune, spinning
with indignity, nicknacks and tic-tacs
on our welcome mat, we open the door
and drive our knees into the wooden floor,

Bracing our breaking souls against the forceful tide
of tears behind our dry and swollen eyes. Upon landing
we are cold and shaking, suitcases stationed round living
room furniture, and we are taking in the other’s hands in
common present prayer.