Things I know about love

(An early draft.)

1.
Dear God,
let me be damned a little longer, a little while.
I've read all about nirvana and the books say
you don't get reborn, but I'm not ready.

Turn me into a cow, a fish, a blood-sucking leech,
but let me come back, yet imperfect to this imperfect place.
Let me taste the muddy water, crawl up on shore
into the frigid air, burrow into the river bank
pack myself in mud for the long winter.
Keep my gills moist and my body warm.
It's better than nothing.

I'll take it. It's a bargain if in spring the slanted sun
begins to thaw my side, beats my heart with salty, slow blood,
blinks my eyes open just in time to catch the dew dissapear
from the grass.

2.
Your name has all the markings of a church.
It's a sacred space.
A word I can't say out loud.
I keep it in a little box,
set it up where I can just see it,
use other names instead.
Like God's name, it's only to be
spoken in drastic circumstances.