Found Jesus

All that she was,
And it was plenty,
Was reduced by a scrub-faced preacher
At 1:13 p.m. on the afternoon they buried her
To this: In the final days before she left us, she’d found Jesus.
And maybe she had.
Maybe she’d untethered herself
From all the evidence
And covered herself in a Jesus blanket.
I’ll probably do something similar,
Push comes to shove comes to penultimate.
No atheists in foxholes, or so we’re told.
Anyhow, those of us who actually knew her
Knew that, her physique notwithstanding,
She was pixie-souled
And in a hurry,
Maybe because she’d been told
That her life would be shorter than most.
Something about her kidneys.
Her wry wit poured from her
As if frantic to escape a condemned building in a temblor.
Her eyes sparkled behind her glasses.
A tilt of her lip gave her away
When she wanted her zingers
To sneak up on you unawares.
Okay, maybe she’d found Jesus.
But all that she was,
And it was plenty,
Can’t be cabined
Within the antiseptic claim
Of an epiphanic moment.

This piece appeared in Miller’s Pond Poetry Magazine.