DiaBLOGue

From where we sat on the fourth pew 
the three square windows looked like cubes 
of shimmery gold 
vertically stacked 

At the baptismal Erma sings “Que grande es El,”
her voice breaking, 
and the woman she has brought to Jesus, 
clothed in white on the front row, weeps. 

My sister sings Puccini in the shower. 
A fever ripped the muscle of her heart 
when she was five but now she is almost 
twenty-one and lovely. She leaves music 

The picture gathers from a host of things— 
From giggles of remembering, not play 
By play but one word lifting from another 
Into a rearview record, a happy weather 

It’s the simplicity I like, no pulpit thunder, 
no fiery “Thou shalt nots” rattling the soul. 
A set prayer, phrases you can roll around 
your mouth all week, then string together