Be praised, O Lord, for this bit of mystery, / which lifts, which lightens.

Forgive me. A mother can only hold so many scars.

You knew the names of other people’s fears because you / had plenty of your own.

Come on. Come on. Come on, now. Come on.

there’s a hole through which reasoning escapes

The pain wasn’t in dying/ but in belief in you, that you required of me