CONGREGATION

She comes to sing and hear a song,

and be elect despite the week.

At home, where television hum

reminds her husband’s dead for years,

she’ll start awake at three a.m.

and call his name, to hear it said

for saying’s sake, to be its source.

The preacher says the meek are loved

and redbuds through the countryside

display reward for those who need.

She folds her hands from wrestled habit.

The plate is passed. She gives again.

At close of prayer, she stands—as do

the others—and is dismissed, departs.

Come evening she rakes her yard.

It takes her where she needs to go.

The sound of leaves together trembling

into piles anticipates the match.

Its flame she touches toward the edges

till slowly all the center’s gone.

On her porch, she sips some tea,

certain—even when dusk turns dark—

she sees the stains her yard’s become.

appeared in New Millennium Writings