I am trying to remember. How did I heal
After Mama’s death? I have not forgotten
Truth, but a tad, Faith to believe the Truth.
The churches tell me to remember
Where Papa is going. I remember.
To that terrible place—Away.
Words are so mighty, and the churches
Do not know. They pour vinegar
On open wounds, so carelessly, and in
The name of God.
Lord, forgive me. I am weak and bitter.
All the day I yearn for your touch, for your hand
To hold mine, yet I have only to feel
The sharp crests of the grass against my calves.
I know you are Lord of grace and of rain.
Here is all I request: Slip a handful of grace
Into the next rainfall and send a storm.
How my need abounds.