Communion

My son asks about gravity
and tongues—
why they get tied around words
sometimes
in shapes unfamiliar
and clog our mouths.

He asks about
the purpose of bras,
if they are to keep
my breasts from falling,
if my heartbeat
shakes them loose.

My son asks about marriage,
if two men can promise
things to each other
and why states would have
different laws,
if he can someday have both
a husband and wife.

Together, we watch
the pine needles slip
to the ground,
laugh at the songbirds
and woodpeckers filling
the air with hymns.

It’s Sunday and this
is our house of worship.

We’ll chase the light,
kick up mud tracks,
and scoop kindling
into makeshift baskets;
his small hand
will open for mine
along the broken bits.

Our pockets
heavy with found stones
and feathers, our hands
holding the sparks
that will keep a fire.