I stand at the kitchen sink washing the one thing I took from home after you died: The Madonna & Child statue I meditated on—kneeling before you beaten, traumatized, loving you, year after year. I wash it gently, remembering the time you left a statue of St. Joseph, carved out of salt, in a sink of warm water to soak. You did not realize it would dissolve, desert you like your man-made religion. When you returned, you pushed your hands through the milky-white water, confused, almost frantic, as you thrashed about in search of what you had laid there.
Keith Hoerner (BS, MFA) lives, teaches, and pushes words around in Southern Illinois. Find Keith on Twitter and Instagram @keithhoerner.