Ragged Time

for Eve Shelnutt

We filled our days
with church, she
swathed babies and

I swept the Narthex,
on Sundays she sang
alto, I was acolyte,

there were matins
and vespers, missions
to migrant camps,

we filled our souls
with piety and truth,
devout offerings --

these were not
acts of faith but
acts of belief.

Summer days I
walked her home
past the swamp and

heaps of smoldering
mattresses and
tires curling pillars

of smoke, rotting
cabbages and
magazines, we

walked the valley
of shadow wasps
and dragonflies

as ashes rained
down on us and
the cattails--we

we were too young
for the body's
blessing to serve,

forsaken as all
must be before
suffering holiness.