eight years after her teenage pregnancy

she's back in bed

sleeping (when she can)

with cancer.

the pain is civil war

inside her,

a body against itself,

a heart against the odds

fighting for three children

who sometimes at night

already talk to God

as orphans.

she's wrecked and wasting

fast, the morphine

like a rag around the faucet:

it doesn't stop the leak,

only keeps the drops from spreading.

for every one of her

there are a hundred priests

and a thousand rosaries

and God knows how many

divine secretaries screening calls,

keeping sacred the executive siesta.

beside her wide-eyed pleading

another boy who never served altar

is burning up inside his roman collar.