Mary and I sip lemonade from mason jars, glass sticky
in our palms. In cheap folding chairs, we talk
over the city sounds below—Mary tells me
about her broken washing machine
and the roses on sale at the farmers market
and nothing about the roundness she hides under blue t-shirts.
Evening washes over us and I know
she is thinking about what is going to happen,
what she heard when she knelt at the voice
from above her head. It was thunder and white light
all at once and it told her not to be afraid—
blessed her, even. I ask her what it feels like
and she is quiet before she says it is like
holding breath inside herself, a trembling weight.
She looks over the city, its windows like so many mirrors.
Except for her hands, how tightly she grips her cup,
I’d think she was watching the sunset
instead of envying the birds, wondering where they go
when the world feels too big for their smallness.
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