Glue

i.
Figurines
bowed down in submission,
asking, begging, seeking.

Shake the dust
from off your prayer mat.

ii.
Peek inside
every weeping crevice
that holds a curled secret,

siting there,
waiting to be coddled.

iii.
From your years
spent ploughing the furrows,
form the neuroglia,

the stickum
and spit of memories.

iv.
The baby
with chin tucked to the knee
hears everything you say;

whisper now
all your sacred knowledge.