Songbirds fall from the apple tree.

We find dead warblers along the riverbank,

their feet clinging to willow twigs.

I’ve reviewed all the reports.

I’ve studied.

The very gospel that brings me

to my knees before You

is called heresy by Your fathers.

I set down my cleaning cloth,

take my beads into the silent room.

My husband calls for me.

In the darkness, we hold

each other. Shall I name

that liturgy for you?

Feast of lips on flesh.

The sun still hours from rising.

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