Everyone’s trying to find their way home,
to what was. Wrongs. Rights. Some justice
for what’s buried, like a tune whose lyrics
sit on the tip of your tongue, or that hymn
God loves his children, be faithful to Jesus.
Grandma was faithful, praying daily, lest
Jesus in his loin cloth hanging on the wall
didn’t hear her anymore. My small jealous
heart wanted her faith, to not be lost
forever on this street corner I knew well.
Grandma lost her rosary once, lost God,
she said. It was her plague of locust.
And all the while, I am turning this wheel
and spinning my searchlights to find good.