I’m sorry for always sneaking

you into my palm

when mom wasn’t looking.

I liked the weight of you.

I liked how the spikes of your halo

turned your head into a hand grenade.

There was something dangerous

about all three inches of you.

Of those on mom’s high altar

you were my favorite, with

your strange smile. You would fall

when the door slammed

or if I vacuumed too close.

Each time, I interpreted this

as a small act of rebellion

a reminder of your potential.

Your wobble-clatter upon the glass

made me believe that the boldness

of your spirit could be condensed

into three naked, brass inches

with a well-patinated ass

and a terrifying amount of hair

for a baby. I took you, impossibility

of god’s entirety, into my palm

as often, and for as long, as I could.