Circa 2008. I wrote this while participating in an online writing group I'd started with a few friends.
“Imagine what advice one of your favorite deceased
authors would offer you.”
The dead don’t speak
to me.
Sherrie channels May Sarton
and prompts me
to tune into my muse.
So I fiddle with my receiver,
battle the static.
For a moment I feel
like I am at Faith Lutheran again,
surrounded by the stained glass,
the thrumming organ.
I want to merge with the pastor’s words;
I want them to penetrate, to pierce my side.
Instead
I am at home writing
at midnight,
pilfering phrases from my friends
and adjectives from my husband, an atheist
who feels more real
to me
than Jesus.
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