she weeps night after night into cupped hands
because she never learned how to pray, her
sadness and misery have an author
whose name she refuses to think or speak
swearing “I’ve moved on” or “I’m in a new,
a different, chapter of my life now.” This
morning she swore to her well-meaning sister
she would start mass next week, but she’s never
been in a church without an escort and
she really rather not walk into that
change. Faith, she says, is a private matter,
not to be flaunted or forced onto others
even kindly; live and let live, she says.
Meantime, still, night after night she weeps.

dmpitchford