We’re talking about the past. I mean, we’re talking about the way things used to be.

We’re talking fiddlesticks under dirt and the earth trembling.

We’re talking airport lounges and hands pressed against glass.

There hasn’t been a Friday prayer

I’ve attended that I haven’t sat there

wondering who’s got the gun.

My eyes dart this way and that

while my aunt is bowing her head

next to me, and I wonder if I’d be

courageous enough to steal a bullet.

Some feelings need to be talked about.

Sometimes faith is wrenched straight out of people’s throats.

I wash my face, my arms, my feet. I listen to the person speak

into the mic and it’s only now I realize he’s got first glimpse of

the door.

This is a hard piece to write because it’s like offering an entrance

into my head as I bend down to kneel. At that point, it’s faith

or nothing.

Knees touch, people laugh, and I remember how it felt to walk

through this empty church in Galway, how I wished I knew the

rules. Is it walk to the front, light the candles, and then pray? Or is it

find a pew, pray, and then light a candle with enough invocation?

Sure, it’s faith, but as the imperfect do, I’ve gotta question timing.

One more week and I’ll be right up in order. I’ll show up in tomorrow’s skin.

There’s a meeting and we discuss spelling,

how important it is for there not to be any mistakes.

God forbid, you know, God forbid humans are humans,

and I’d like to believe divinity is a second language.

The bullet may have its own impulse, but I do wonder about choice.

I wonder about prisons, solitary confinement, where windows are placed,

if they’re conducive to art. And I do, in fact, think of the person who told me,

“You should go home and figure out how to make different decisions.” So I did. I went home. I ate crackers I bought from the hospital cafeteria. I washed the dust down with water. I slipped into bed. I wished for a beautiful mind.

There was rain. I remember the birds.