Mercy

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.