‘why’ I think
the ceiling of the church
sweeps like the bow of a ship
salt-sweat soaked with tears
of penitence of confession
(but not the ocean)
sitting in that vaulted space
swimming in an ocean of words
the knots in the beams
sunken like the prayers
when language was a grainy vein
my finger would find its way along
a blind woman seeking the texture of truth.
My knees submit to an embroidered service,
singing (in spite) of myself
for the dark soil of home.
Louella Sullivan is a poet, mother and teacher. Most days she does each adequately.