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An armadillo dug up the grass
in my parents’ yard last year—
the kind that bounce buckshot
off their back and carry leprosy.
If only I could do the same:
materialize armor, lumber along.
I could curl up while testimonies
pelt my spine on Sunday,
doubts doubting doubt.
Everything in a simmer
until I find my niche at church.
Someplace to read history and hide.
Healing happens in the dark
for those of us who burrow.