A poem about love & god, but not at the same time

I swear someday I will sit in our living room,
my notional bay window come to life, surrounded
by old furniture and the unraveled threads
of my pessimism turned buoyant
in the stained glass light.

Each morning I will watch her fill a mug with coffee,
think of how many things she’s filled without knowing it:
my reserve of hope, my empty ribcage, swelling in all the vacant,
unfillable parts of my body.

I promise one day I will tell her what it all means,
fashion a dictionary out of words that sound best
in her voice, whisper them into my palms
until they feel whole again.

Right now all I can do is clutch the rabbit’s foot
and pray our salvation comes before the rapture,
that god’s epiphany has more to do with our devotion
than our sins.

All I can do is fan the pilot flame of desire, will the wounds
closed, water all the wilting parts of myself and her and us,
& lord, let that be enough.