On Sundays I wake early, not stopping
To lift the heaviness from my eyes.
God will do it, I reason, and

He always does—at first, gradually,
Until the weight rolls from my chest,
And I am not shuddering, but singing.

I am not sure what tightens my throat
When the church sings about mercy.
I am not sure how my body dances

On the coffee-stained hardwood, which also
Sings, which also dances under our feet.
I am not sure how the walls echo the hymn.

On Sundays I have lunch, and then my work
Hours devour me. And I sit until dusk comes,
Black, beautiful, binding. I keep on singing.

On Sundays I ask Bryan (a coworker) to bring
Me some semblance of dinner. After all, we do
Not live by bread alone. There is, also, God’s

Incredible goodness. Bryan tells me
I must stop being so poetic. But that is
Not something that I can do on Sundays.

And Bryan would know, too, if he
Could feel the sorrow stripped from
His soul and flung into the eaves.