Today, a boy says, good news: I love you again,
as if this were a gift. As if all men were God.
Instead, church bells. A forgotten hymn from the Book of Revelation—
something that hurts in a way John could never find a name for.
Luckily, the past is never dead. It's not even past.
In a memory, the surgeon hands me a warm bag of my own blood.
Say this aloud. It will not protect you.
