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At 7:00 a.m., after Lemon Zinger,
And half a whole wheat
pita,
She sits on the hardback chair at the window,
The
curtains drawn open – southern exposure.
She has more comfortable chairs, a sofa: cushioned,
Lazy,
floral. No. They are not for this.
Do not ask for its story; you'll oblige her to
Tell you.
It's long and, she will admit, half untrue.
The only thing certain is it was her mother's and
her
Mother's mother's, at precisely this hour.
Dutifully, the sun falls in, splashing her lap;
She
acknowledges its presence, closes her eyes.
She begins by jabbing away at her ego, scraping
The
ceiling of her defenses;
At 7:30, give or take, when the plaster
Is threadbare,
about to
Collapse on her, God comes rushing in
"Irresistibly," she
says.
She fills with Light – marvelous, buoyant –
then
While she has the Divine attention,
She chants her litany of neighbors,
friends,
Acquaintances, family – her hurting universe –
And so many names paper over her ceiling,
Overlapping,
weaving, delighting in touching.
The Light washes over them – baptismal fire. For
nine
Infinite seconds, she is the vehicle
for the world's healing.
She knows, of course, God can't be contained,
That she
would otherwise burst or melt.
Still, she says, "although it's laborious, the world
And
I need it." And so,
evidently, does God.
