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she says.

I want her to cry blood or something equally dramatic, kneel down, maybe, touch my face, maybe. Or smile. It's not so much. No one else need see it and I will never tell. Her low-lidded sleepy eyes are not looking at anything I can see.

I am here for a miracle, Mary, can't you see one is needed? I need a rapture. I need a window in, into anything you can show me.

When the moon first rose I was not there to see it. I don't know the details, I wasn't invited. That has never stopped making me wince.

(Am I selfish in all of this? Is she?)

Alone in a darkened church. Alone, mumbling. I might be mistaken for a crazy person, a speaking-in-tongues person, a person who has been touched or spoken to from on high. I am none of those. I am not driven mad. If I mutter or gesture it is only an attempt to call something out. Like getting drunk to see if you're an alcoholic. Like seeing how far over a line you can go before you can't get back. Like risking a fall, to see if there is anyone waiting to catch you. Like begging for anything true.


Mary, I suppose it is possible that you are waiting for a sign from me.

If you want me to be a candle, I will be one.   I will stand tall and I will let something burn.   I have always been burning.   I will grow still and strong.   I will wait.   I will close my eyes.   If you will help me pray.

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