“If I Must Be Saved”

A spacious night, the ward quiet but for a male nurse humming

Klezmer music to your roommate, an elderly Polish

widow suffering in body only, her roofless

mind deluged by grace

as the first priest to orbit Earth

administers extreme unction to New York City,

its helium balloon of Christ punctured beyond repair

and dying in the orange and brown floodlights of Thanksgiving. 

If I must be saved, let it be from the world to come. 

Though it is wrong to twist silence into forgiveness

I’m tired of waiting for absolution. 

If this is really you sleeping next to John’s roses,

tell me quick why God fails the just and love dies–tell me quick

before this night slips westward against my will.