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.