Sunday Morning Percodan

There are days when a big wind kills her son

calling long distance from Uz, Oregon

and even the sunny throne of coffee won't do

for a mood. Days when the pressure of heaven

drops the barometer and her ankles

talk back to the clouds. Already the old wound

of a rib has knit from scarring

but not her marriage, so she tips

too many pills from the orange light

of a bottle whose script has blurred.

She spoons cream in her coffee

twice a day, shrugs once every four

hours, takes God as needed, and prefers

love before it expires. In an hour

the world will freshen and a new church

will press its spire through the ruth

of her heart. The rumble of her husband

will turn back to words she wants,

the cats will own her lap, she will lunge

the stairs in half and answer each question

the phone asks. What is faith

if not this, this opiate reaching its

tiny hands into the lobes of euphoria,

this hymn that dips or psalm that lifts

her eyes, this heart like the swollen

heart of Christ astride a donkey,

with the lazy palms of Sunday waving hey.