When we bellow high on steel highs
of roller coasters or yowl at a dropped hammer
while fixing her crib, we’re scouring for the
divine. Our throats empty to clear a path
for thundering air. What else to do?

Our electric brains switch too slowly
to understand these sudden scenic shifts
so we yell and scream, dark noises from
our stomach pits. No logic, just a physical
response to the hot inordinance of pain.

In time, she’ll grow so long she bonks her head
on the unyielding bunk bed wood and liberates
a mighty holler deep from her belly. Do not
quiet her. Console. Allow for these tiny sacraments,
when God becomes the vowels. Or maybe it’s the other way around.