A kind face welcomes you at the door
but the tortured souls on the stained glass
have their doubts. They have a hunch your
savior’s in your billfold, that you spend your
nights making cards, trash-talking the moon.
Still, forgiveness may be in the air,
the way clarity can tap your shoulder when
you least expect it, pointing to a door that
only yesterday looked like a wall.
Don’t blow your chance now by asking
for miracles, by asking the man holding
the collection plate if he can make change.
Take what is given with a quiet tongue,
with the humility of a naked branch granted
another season. There may be a thousand
souls you yourself can save just by unclenching
your fist. No one has to know the life you’ve
lived, the bodies thrown from cliffs, how just
this morning you prayed in front of the mirror,
your eyes wide open.
(first published in The Cape Rock)