I tried foraging for my soul for a while,
sippin redemption out the gutters, lookin
for recipes in the backseat of some bad
choices, hollerin to find my voice before
I tried to sing again—but even then,
all shrines go stale eventually.
Honey
drips
into a steaming mug of something I’m
only recently discovering a curiosity
for—coating the tug in my belly that
keeps asking for a taste of a song I don’t
know the lyrics to yet.
(It’s boiling,
under my skin.)
What we’re made of, I’m told, can be
made into the finest of teas, but we
aren't often suited for things with more
depth. Momma always said if you can’t
find something holy, store-bought is just
fine, so start grinding yourself down now
to savor a communion of your own blend.


There is an ancient hunger in me—calling,
hollow-hummed and primed, like an apostle
still finding devotion.
A reminder,
singing:
grace is a relief best served from home,
made only by my own permission given
to refine my body
& what it receives.