because the light coming through
my bedroom window changed.
on the hill across the valley
i saw
a flame
rising.
but it was
no wild fire. it
was a
cross,
burning.
silently,
silently,
i crept down the hall,
into the closet
where,
at the back,
mamma’s cotton dress
still dangled over her shoes,
and the walls smelled of hair oil and oranges.
in that dark and narrow place,
i opened a hole for myself
but no matter how i turned,
the light from the cross
curled its bright claws under the door.