when God cradled
my body with care, and,
making sure that all my fingers
and toes were accounted for,
exhaled life into:

A.) the absence of breath,
B.) a paper wingbox filled with formless prayers,
C.) an accordion-boned empty house,
D.) a desperate cathedral made for waiting on the Lord;

when he blew that perfect breath into this unworthy form,
did he know just how hard his nimbused knee pressed into the small of my back?

I wonder,
was it his effervescent kiss
that mangled my tiny body so,
or was it the crushing weight of his love?