The Conversation
For Sister Kathleen Quigley, SC
My friend has moved
to where at 3 am the stars shine
or a shawl of clouds covers them.
Who knows where her god is?
She, teacher of biology and theology,
who once said of living things:
We never fully understand—
just moments of epiphany, said
as I bent to gather a glistening rock
while a wave chased a sandpiper
up sand that once was shells
something into something else—
~
She drew on muddle.
Omissions hemmed her in.
Who knows where her god is
between the binding of Genesis
and Revelations?
~
I carry my coffee to my desk
where hard waits
like an unwritten poem
that begs for light
I hold it—
the rock—
what else to do?
For this is the cold epiphany.
