the place is colder now;
shuttered, shuddered, curtain drawn and
silent like a cathedral.
my footsteps echo down the hall and the floorboards
cry like it’ll be our salvation --
and won’t it?
our lady of seven sorrows over the doorway
mary at the head of your bed
st. rosa watching from the top of the bookshelf;
st. jude, st. dymphna, st. john the apostle,
st. joseph upside down in the yard.
(but no one would take this house.)
my martyrdom may not be as sweet
or symbolic or saviorlike
but surviving this has been my miracle.
i find no company in the godlike
not glorious or glowing
and no halo around my head
but the light of another dusk peeks in through the gap in the window
grazes my skin softly
and the feeling is heavenly.