The larger the density,
the more stuff there is
in a small amount of space.
Like the story in the Bible
when Jesus pulls a child
onto his lap and says, Truly
unless you become
like little children,
you will never enter
the kingdom of heaven.
When I look in the mirror,
I want to think about shrinking
in ways no one else will see.
I want to learn how to fit
in a soul with no room
for boxes in the basement.
I want to laugh when bounding
grasshoppers evade my grasp
again; I want to cry
when the darkness
scares me. Lord, help
me be dense like stones
that sink in rivers,
like honey pooling
at the bottom of my cup.
Maybe heaven’s gates
don’t open after we sit
on brass scales, but when
we’ve strung old quilts
over the kitchen chairs,
dropped down
on scabby knees,
and crawled.