Thousands of Bows

It was the last lit room

in the middle of the night

with a letter buried

before it was sent.

"Aamiin" was his last word,

ignoring an insect

that kept saying

it was a waste,

it was a waste.

When a sky felt too small

to hold her name,

he borrowed five

inside his lung

that sometimes forgot

to breathe,

to live.

"Amen" was his second last word,

accompanied by a choir

of one breath.

It was not that he was tired

to kneel on the floor.

It was just

thousands of bows

felt too few

to make her laugh

without flame

burning her back.

Without flame, oh God.