once, 
i opened a torn blue notebook,
with the intent of showing you
your own invisibility.
but after fifteen minutes
of fervent moment-collecting,
i crumpled, and my hand cramped
with bladelike inadequacy.

there is a nun, a catholic,
somewhere close by,
apologizing for her own
inferiority.
she lights a candle in christ's name,
and her love goes soaring; sailing.
i was that woman; you were that god;
that candle, the cellophane.
and you, the nun in fervent prayer,
watching men cry over
orange juice.

after months, as these pages nestle
untouched
amongst homework and orders for cokes,
i understand god, now.
it's the same as the nun
and the witness: despairing for whatever
is not,
we invent these little lights.
clear, and light motion.
am i there with you, yet?




bronnie


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