God, may you give grace by Stella Warden

Fresh flowers, another day 

Devotion to the dying.

Stained glass, heavy-handed

pours out kaleidoscopic color. 

My palms pressed together 

with thumbs intertwined. 

Fingertips met with a 

sector of breath, so kind. 

Oh worthy symbol, so far, 

yet so close. 

Head hung, eyes swollen shut, my 

souled bones on knowing wood. 

Is this how you pray?

I hide as strays 

pass through the pews,

Like a child caught.

The hum of 

one of earth’s least-dearly-held creatures 

murmurs near

Sweetness sucked, welt left 

upon my right hand.

Crimson wet decanted, 

while I take up space.

I whip out a sleeve of saltine crackers.