Listen, I don’t mean any harm,
says the virus cartwheeling
off our porch, leaving its
muddy boots on the air vents,
smashing all those delicate vases
beneath our ribs. Try to
understand—when I was born,
I had tongues for eyes and nothing
tasted right. Then I found you
and it was like waking up
in a house made of gingerbread.
I know how this ends. Still,
how to stop at just
one mouthful of God?