I Wouldn't Even Know What to Do with a Third Chance by Kaveh Akbar

            
            I wouldn’t even know what to do with a third chance,
            
            another halo to shake loose galloping into the crossfire.
             
                Should I be apologizing? Supposedly, what’s inside my


                body is more or less the same as what’s inside yours—
           
            here, the river girl clutching her toy whistle. There,
            
            the black snake covered in scabs. Follow my neckline,


            the beginning will start beginning again. I swear on my
            
            head and eyes, there are moments in every day when
            
                if you asked me to leave, I would. Heaven is mostly


                preposition—up, above, around—and you can live
          
            any place that’s a place. A failure of courage is still
          
           a victory of safety. Bravery pitches its refugee tent


            at the base of my brain and slowly starves, chipping into
            
            darkness like a clay bird bouncing down a well. All night
            
                I eat yogurt and eggplant and garlic, water my dead

              
                orchids. In what world would any of me seem credible?
           
            God’s word is a melody, and melody requires repetition.
           
            God’s word is a melody I sang once then forgot.