manna

i count the spaces between my ribs like a tally of unanswered prayers / my body is an empty basket; heavy from hollowness / and i am tired of trusting tomorrow for my bread / lost enough to long for Egypt (even when i know the sea would swallow me whole) / He answers my heart-grumbles with sun-rise and sparrow-song and frost on the ground / i do not want to listen / He tells me to trust Him / but i am starving; i am an empty cistern, Jonah's whale, a gaping ossuary. / so i swallow every promise whole; and try not to choke on quail feathers.

a little boy holds out his lunch; loaves and fish, coriander and dew / he gives the Savior everything / and i am ashamed at all the manna i’ve been keeping in my pockets / i put my hope in the offering-basket as it passes by / and ask God if He can use my crumbs.

He unfolds my hands white-knuckled, thumbs bruised from prayer / and plants a seed of mustard-grain / whispering, “stop holding bread, hold Me instead.” / i let my palms become soil, become ready-manger, become sky-waiting-for-starlight; calloused, broken, open / Sarah laughs with Sarai this time, sharp but clear like the desert-wind, “Listen child, tomorrow is soon.” / this time, i laugh with her too, if only to fill the space in my ribs before the tide comes in.