A Prayer for Mama

i'm reading this book
about this guy named jesus
who lets starving men eat
and blind men see.

but he couldn't give back
Mama's sight.
that's how i know
his story's fiction.

it was always nine o' clock
when the church bell rang
the pastor would open the door, urge,
come in.
we'd sit.

Mama would say,
bow your head and pray
she sat there so regal, brown hair
pinned up and determined mouth
she's the one who gave me that book
about jesus and all those blind, hungry people
i wondered if i should tell her it ain't true
but i never did.

Mama went blind
in '44 she said
took a blow to the head
i wondered, if jesus were real,
could he give her sight?

but Mama died last year
there were no hospital bracelets, no good-byes.
she prayed to jesus to love her,
and he loved her enough to lead her away.
or maybe her heart was just broken.

papa still take me to church sometimes,
but not like Mama did.
his faith blurred too.

sometimes I think our faith is a bible
with running ink, its pages dripping with water.
i can't figure just what it says
or if it even true

when papa says,
bow your head and pray
sometimes i pray to saints,
but they never listen.

mostly i pray to Mama
sometimes to say i love you,
mostly to wonder whether or not
she looking at jesus.