staring at the cathedral door
the stain glass window above
looks down like the eye of God,
weepy and discolored.
She feels Him watch as she presses
the creaky door to the inside.
on the backside of God’s eye
where His children burn sandalwood,
light votives, and lift up prayers
for failed marriages, lost virtue,
wayward children, new jobs,
closed bars on Sunday,
playing the ponies,
and lottery tickets.
alone as God sleeps.
Sorting streams of broken memories
pre-nuptials, post-motherhood, teen years,
middle life, being two, and now being one.
In rote she lights a candle of her own.
without angelic fanfare or ghostly memory
she disappears out of God’s sight.