Holy Friday Morning Bathed in Light

Those quiet breaths upon the pillow.

The gentle, rhythmic cadence of his lungs

Expanding and collapsing before me.

This is seeing God, outside of

Burning bushes and over-cooked toast.

This is tasting faith on his exhales—

Gone too soon to commit to memory,

Yet knowing that, at one point, I had tasted it,

Felt it real enough to offer up a hallelujah,

And when he goes in the morning,

Dressed in everything but my goodbye,

I’ll lose this ability to speak in tongues

Outside his arms and the unforgiving light

Because his Holy Spirit is a movement, not

A foundation upon which to build my church for him.