moon over boulder, pine-green sage back-lit by orange cliff, wild goat covered in dust. When my hand traces lines welded by rain and time into rock, my palm vibrates, says communion. But what communion is to me is different for everyone else. It is the first drag of a cigarette after hours inside, the lick of a dog after a day at work, the hum of someone's car speeding over an otherwise vacant highway. No set destination. No expectations but whatever one wants. What I'm trying to say is once, I wanted to disappear. Once, my own skin felt bulbous and cumbersome, and I was always falling from some great height into a bed of brass knives. What I'm trying to say is it wasn't guilt wrapped in tissue paper. It wasn't a word that brought me back from the window ledge and draped me in the polar fleece of the now. Like the split-second reconnection of a circuit after a power outage, the shadows drained away, and there I was so clear and more defined than steel an eye could trace the line of my neck from outer space. I can't explain it—how lucky I was. How lucky some others aren't. So I offer my body not in prayer but as bare feet tapping rock. My body spinning like a tumbleweed caught in a gust. I am not here to tell what is and isn't. I am not here to say everything will be understood. I am simply here like any newborn but with some of the wailing already done.