She sits a pew closer
– to God, I don’t know.
A sister, much older,
Enough to be my grandmother.
She wears a pink hat
Salt and pepper curls sprinkle her shoulders.
Passing her the offering plate, she doesn’t see.
I waggle to dish, gaining her attention,
Immediately feeling rude, irreverent and impatient.
Shortly she turns to show me the correct hymn,
Then before prayer, lovingly grasps my hand
– swathing blue veins on her aging fingers.
And I know all is well.

the fire is throwing light
that bounces off your fair
skin and you are a glowing
vision in the night driving
engines inside of me in the
wrong direction.