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In the beginning was the Word, and the Word

was with God, and the Word was God, and

the Word was you. Yes, you were front-row for

the beginning, ancient percussion thrumming

below deck in your chest, engine of the universe, 
the Word and the stars obeying that fail-safe 
rhythm through years of distance and yawning 
black vacuums of space.

So why did you grow so many goddess-arms? To protect

your delicate atmosphere, cover mouth and ears,

keep others safely contained in distant orbit? Why,

when the Word-made stars are what started your heart?

Beautiful, you’re caught up in old light from

dying suns. You can’t outrun this. You can’t

use your telescope for this. There is more to the beat

than those insecurities swimming beneath your skin,

the hard questions you try to treadmill away.

Don’t you know the harder you run, 
the stricter your self-imposed exile, the closer

you get to the Word, feeling unfit even

to touch the dirt on His sandal-tan, dust to dust? But,

don’t you know? On the day you arrive and

brush the hem of His garment with your thousands of fingers,
He will wipe every tear from your eye, and 
you will finally fucking see the Truth, the one 
the stars have been screaming all along:

Wholeness already beats within you, there’s starfire

in the engine room; your God-loved goddess heart
has been bursting with it all along. Selah.