Gabriel sits beside me and asks if the pain in my chest is worth losing god for.
He doesn't understand, that's ok.

I pull out a clump of feathers.
It's not about the pain at all, it's about what it makes.

He thinks for a moment, asks me this, now:
Why turn myself into a monster?

I do not answer, plucking white feather after white feather.
It hurts, but so is the action of uncovering.

I don't know if it's worth it, sometimes,
but I can't do anything else.

Bound to the unmaking, the remolding.
I can't do anything else.

I tell him:
All you see is the fruit rotting.

He says he does not understand.
The fruit fermenting, I clarify.

Not the jam, just the crushing.
Not the creation. Not the wine.

And to think,
Jesus only started with water.