peace. Because manic is only a label
that means the atmosphere hasn’t yet expanded
to accept the colors spiking from your crown,
and I don’t mean Mary, looking at the babe
serene like no other wordly mother.
This place is never sane, but you are, and he is,
and you’ve touched down together
here before, taken turns stacking the plates.
I can’t stop picturing him in your kitchen,
face lit with warmth and laughing with the pasta,
wonderfully seasoned, tossed and strange.