You wouldn’t know it
to look at her
but on Sunday nights,
whenever the local TV station
put aside its day’s programming
and broadcast something light
and frothy and nearly, neatly
lightly blasphemous, she
would turn it off, turn
the radio off, turn the lights
off too, and she’d get down
on her knees and ask for
something — forgiveness
possibly, peace definitely;
the TV would have to wait
and her weary bones would
certainly needed that rest.

You wouldn’t know about
the next event, either;
how she would get up
from her knee stance
and go from wherever
she’d found herself
to the fridge; how
she’d pour herself a beer
and try to forget it all
for one minute or maybe ten
while drinking it down
slowly, steadily.

What she was trying to forget,
to let go into the dark,
she doesn’t recall — and that
is a blessing she created,
a hallelujah in the dark —
muted, almost nonexistent now,
but so vital to her being.
She would tell you about it,
if only she remembered.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T