“Let us build ourselves a city and a tower with its top in the heavens… lest we be dispersed.” - Genesis 11:4
All this love
was not gifted to me
by a jealous god.
To name yours is to
kneel before them. Instead I
call everyone I meet
an angel, and pick gravel
from my knees each night
before I go to bed
alone.
Nothing I know
has arrived intact.
Forever searching for the depth
of damage, uncertain of how
to stop triaging needs—I know
what it means to want
what breaks.
To recognize the moment a person
splits. How pain announces itself
before language. I see fractures,
and know how much to handle them.
I see the eye unwilling to be met,
the jaw that tightens instead of
speaking. I know what a person
can forgive, and what they
haven’t.
I learned early
that survival wears
many costumes. I do not
stand to beg, but the languages
were broken long before
me. I do not confuse hunger
with faith. I do not lie, steal,
or borrow. The devil
says please, so I don’t
have to.
Grace finds me
in strange places now.
They call knowledge
power, but it doesn’t serve
me. They call safety paramount,
but it smothers. They call restraint
strength, but it limps.
One eye sold, the other
shut—every rib
a wishbone.
Not everything lost
is gone. Even the ocean
coughs up the bodies
she’s finished holding—we
all wish for home, you see?
Hearts held collateral
for wisdom murmur
all the same. I’ve heard
how silence can answer
prayers. I’ve seen miracles
no one asked for.
- Cierra Lowe, 2025