Posted February 6, 2025
for years I carried in me
the architecture of churches
on the off chance I missed an angel
as I drew endless ballerinas
in dervish motion in the margins
of paper programs while I perched
backwards on the kneelers
next to my grandmother’s low heels
the ones with golden buckles
neatly tucked next to her umbrella
until the celebrant went silent
and laid out the eucharist
this was the moment I most liked
to sneak out into the quiet
courtyard to sit in the sun
next to the columbarium
by the fountain that promised
living water in filagree gothic letters
above a calcified nozzle
and limestone basin filled
with dry earth and desiccated sticks
between pots heavy with petunias
it has taken me many years to make myself
but I am certain my new bones
first sprouted there beneath the oaks
that touched me with all the shapes
of light less colorful perhaps
than stained glass windows
but for all their seeming simpleness
equally hospitable to angels