No one’s sure how she got in the sanctuary.
Perhaps she slept in the garden remnants,
in the dirt beneath the magnolia tree, bare,
near the fountain still flowing, and then maybe
she slipped in, shielded by a mother’s coat,
and slinked into the sanctuary, between pews,
and found what could be a den, crouched quiet
as a wood creature can be, while the cantor
led the mournful in Amazing Grace,
and Stille Nacht, and at the Malotte Lord’s Prayer,
a girl playing on the floor with soft books
noticed and shushed the vixen,
pointed to the blue robe of the Queen among women,
who may or may not have smiled.