PATRICK KINDIG
the calling
as a girl my mother prayed
for the stigmata
to pass her by. let
the hand remain whole, let
the lord’s eye land
elsewhere: thus
ran the prayers
of good catholic girls. good
catholic boys, too,
for when i leaned
of our lady of fatima, i fled
into sin. in school,
i swore. in church,
i daydreamed, doodled
superheroes
in the hymnals. in bed,
i imagined the bodies
of other
good catholic boys
& touched myself. yet still
i said my rosary. i awaited
the miracle. sometimes,
i tried to picture heaven, its
perpetual bells, its wide
fields of light. no
matter how hard
i called to them, no
visions ever came.
Winter Poem
Ice is over
for all of us. No more
morning cold,
no snow, not even
in the mountains,
not even
in my husband’s
sleeping toes.
Christmas comes
in waves of gray,
warm rain stroking
the cheek, sateen.
How will we know
the year’s end
this year, what shape
will its ragged edge
take. Maybe
flakes, no two days
alike. Maybe
wind will blow
the year on
& on, carrying it
with clammy hands
until, one day,
it stops.