The Miracle (Peter’s Mother-in-Law Speaks)

It wasn’t just his aloe hand, spreading 
on my burn-crackling brow, his clean breath 
breezing sunshine through my thinking hole, 
his gaze honeying my piggy joints.

Rest here, he whispered 
a velvet tabernacle of time 
unfolding in the crawl space 
between the bones of only my 
ear drum beating, beating. 
As long as you like, he said, 
his voice making room quietly 
like rising bread. Everyone— 
and I think he meant me too— 
everyone will be fed.

I don’t know how long I lay there, 
coming to all my familiar senses 
in the warm dark, letting the pallet 
hold me. They say I came right down  
to serve them, but, I swear,  
it felt like blessed forever.