I want to write about her Like my fading blue bruises And a chip from a crucifix Which has hung on the wall Now yellow and green With two thousand years And 53 lives worth Of family photos Severely stagnant and immortal. I am lost within the confusion Of nicotine stains on the fingers Trying to reach through the glass And the satin-lined home of a box She has to wait in until Her bones are no longer her own But fodder for the anamnesis Which will split them open Suddenly, tenderly Without so much as a by your leave. Years later, we will take Jesus down And the shape of a cross will be Lighter than the paint now evaporating Condensing with the memories Which will live on only for as long As the pillars of this house are standing. But for now, I think of her there, Under the three slabs which fell So hard on the corners of her new take On the after-life, falling like the blows Which drove those nails so very deep, Reverberating so wantonly that a whole town Went to bed earlier than usual. Every religion has an opinion Of where she went with grandpa Who waited for 13 years Right outside her door, Pacing, steadily wearing out Her skin, stepping in time To her gurgling breath. And it?s a relief to know, That whichever -ism -ist Was hitting the (casket) nails right on, She?s in a good place.