she whispers into my truculence and I succumb to that thing called faith
that blind old hag who left her brothers and sisters under the overpass

she strokes her way into my soul and a divining rod slips from the heavens
a greasy old senior citizen with stale coffee breath and a proverb for any situation

she recounts the transgressions from a lifetime ago with a glassine vision
the images move in a circular sway, dashing from light to dark, truisms to falsehoods

this is a woman, my friend, with whom you can ride the river and gaze at the mountain

this is a woman with a heart fired by the very furnace of Hell
yet beats with the sonnets of God