Theophany

Some Sundays I skip church, sleep late. Don’t tell my mother.

It takes work, devotion—

Crosses hanging on the wall and my friends pretend not to

notice when I slip into vernacular

like intinction, like wafer and wine. If only faith were easy to shed

but it arrives as an early morning snow

and covers frozen ground for weeks. Some summers, I dream

of black ice stretched across a lake,

not knowing if it’s strong enough to walk on, always waking

before the first step.