Prose poem in which I understand why my mother
goes to church in the middle of the night: you can’t get that kind of quiet anywhere else. The kind of quiet where a candle is the loudest sound, the brightest light. I don’t even mind the uncanny Jesus in front of me, the statuesque Mary. I don’t mind staying awake. It’s the one thing I know I can do. Imagine me in that garden, Jesus, they never would have taken you. That’s the kind of quiet: tongues of flame whispering a devotion that would be drowned out in daylight. What do you pray for? I pray that all might have a quiet night and don’t lose sleep because I apostle this, but succeed.
