all praise begins with hiding—

the things that we conceal 

beneath covers, within safes 

secret chambers, behind locked 

lips and closed doors, the layers

of rich, embroidered fabric. veiled

threats. brides. undressed piles

of poetry, unmolested near the bed.

every final, silent prayer said

at night, begging for suffering

to pass by our doors. lacking 

language to express gratitude, 

having buried it for so long, 

it has been my habit to ask 

for no blessing, lest it arrive. 

what a surprise, then, when all 

the doors blow open, the mask 

drops, and all is, for a moment 

seen—unexpected consecration

in afternoon light. all the cotton 

shrouds tossed aside together.

I never sought divinity face

to face, but god, this is close.