It started with knots in my stomach and pleas on my tongue.
When all I gained was Her back, my fidgeting hands took to crafting diaphanous walls—

and lining corridors with eggshells on hands and knees,
and posting guards at the door and monsters in the attic,

setting wire traps and laser beams that keep me cowering in my corner.
I understand now why the opossum plays dead.

The Universe is against me.

It continues with opulence and mindful steps.
I dabble in the art of lunacy, pour out the contents of my bones upon the offering table—

Still, fate does not become mine to wield.
Just in case finds a permanent home among my teeth.

The china swallows my shop like poison ivy devouring the forest floor,
and I, the bull, dare not draw so much as a breath.

The Universe must become for me.

I toe the line between beggar and court jester,
atone for sins I’m not sure I’ve committed, ever distraught by Her cold shoulder—

I build my life around but-what-ifs and maybes.
She has become my new God,

and my knees have become one with the floor.
But still, She does not come when called.

The Universe is neutral—