Jane Lin
Mother, are there gods in your afterlife?
You raised us without them,
the Guan Yin statue appearing on the mantle later.
Catechism in the Friday pizza line:
What religion are you?
The choices being Christmas or Hanukkah,
the neighborhood fifty-fifty.
Christian, I said,
knowing how the orange-tipped branch fit
the orange hole in the pretend tree.
Knowing the savor of latkes from the Fried's
as something slightly more other.
Periphery shadows as I drive. Light
passing through me, light bending.
Are you particle and wave? If I decide
there are no saints, no goddesses of mercy, will you—
If there is nothing to remember before birth, will death—
There is a place holy for my husband, of arches, red rock, sand.
I tried to feel it when I went there.
Holy as in close to—