The first decade

 

God was everywhere.

I peed as quiet as I could in the night-pot

not to interrupt his holy thoughts. Everywhere. 

 

In the kitchen with my mother, 

in her beads clicking 

paternoster paternoster paternoster.

He lived in my chest, beside my rosy heart,

knew I wanted a doll. Told me not to.

 

God everywhere and Mama

not wanting anything. Holding a spoon to her lips

not sipping, putting it down. 

 

The rose bush at the door, all thorns.

I held a tiny bud on my lips, a pink offering. 

Perhaps God’s mother would come to the gate,

take rosebuds from my mouth to make a chaplet.

She did that for the young monk in the tale.

 

God everywhere and all my dead brothers and sisters,

their names pattering like mice in a drawer. 

Ring a round a rosy …

and they all fell down, scattered beads,

me the last one clinging to the string. 

 

They crowded in my room at night. I lay breathless,

not to draw them to me. Shhh,  I told the kitten

Hold still. But he wiggled free of me,

leapt onto the window sill, looking out.

Mama, Mama, I shouted and she came

like an angel. There, there. She stroked my hair.

Just a dream. Say your prayer. Jesus keeps

you safe. And she stared out the window.

God and mama and the cat 

seeing in the dark. I shut my eyes.