Agnostic at 47
At church I sit alone, not ready
for the faith, luscious around me.
Small building with
the smell of stale incense
and dark wood. Windows
the color of wishes.
Surrounded by saints and stories,
my anger about God.
I end up there on Sundays
to feel the way solitude feels.
I wrestle God.
Sing Stand Kneel
The whole story
hunts me.
Birth, life, fall,
death life again.
My mother arranges her entire body
around church, anchors
hands mouth heart.
She is certain, she knows his voice,
a rising phoenix .
by M. Soledad Caballero.
from Flight Plan
Red Hen Press on September 2, 2025.:
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