I crawl palms-and-knees to church, grasping no holy thing
but bereavement, wringing like rags my bleeding hands.
The homily ends, and the blessing—
chapped hands held outward, upward,
cupping only air and incense, hung in expectation,
a reaching-toward. I cannot tell what, only that
some feathered starling fled from my throat
with a shriek for mercy. Then my startled silence.
When with difficulty I draw my hands
back to myself, I find my palms are filled
not with answers nor my dead beloved’s fingers
but—amen—with the same miraculous air,
and—amen—with grace.