Alternatives

In one, I married the first man who asked and

I endured. Took as little space as I could,

opened my hands and he’d place his faults,

lined up like eucharists into my palms until

overflowing. Maybe if he’d found God sooner,

the baby would have lived. Maybe I wouldn’t

have found myself alone between blue light and

linoleum passing something too small to survive.

Maybe if I loved him enough, she’d have wanted

to live. Maybe I would have too. Maybe I’d have played

the hymns his God demanded on the church piano.

He’d stand in the pulpit singing, his tenor swinging high,

then low again and I could remember God myself.

Maybe I would have stayed for that. Maybe when

he called years later, I could have returned. Maybe

I would have loved his children and traded them for the dead.

Maybe I would wear white on Sundays, pull on my gloves,

hold the women after they raised up during service, wipe

their sweat, and hold them fast as they cry hallelujah.

Hallelujah. Maybe I would be the woman swooning.

Maybe his God would move through me just once like that,

maybe God would fill me so tight with spirit, I’d split like stars.