Shelter, redux

SHELTER


Give me a church carved entirely of salt.
Let the walls hiss and smoke when I return
to shore. I ask for the grace of a new freckle
on my cheek, the lift of blue, and my mother’s soapy skin
to greet me. Hide me in a room with no windows.
Never let me see the dolphins leaping into commas
for this waterprayer. The faster I pray, the sooner I sleep.