I started hoarding faith in the lining of my gums.
I scooped it out with my nails, layered it on my tongue,
and left it there when I prayed beside his bedside.
for nine nights, there were flood sirens and the sky
opened up black to send rain, but none came.

years ago, I started believing in God
as not just a letter less than good, but the shape
and sound of it. I was preparing for this
goodness to still feed the praise of my mouth,
even without my father.

I had not prepared for his open white eyes,
his wink to show me his brain was there, his gag
wrenching his stomach and lurching his body up,
his scribbled I and H to tell me it hurt, his finger point
to the pinching hole in his neck, his a-fibrillated heart,
his dialysis hum, his ventilator whoosh, him alive
with so many sounds still in the room.

when hope started sputtering like his cough, I trapped the
feeling in my hands to hand it to him. since I heard
the news of his waking, that hope started stretching
like a sinew, swelling tachycardic.

I don’t know where to slice to set it free.