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. [End Page 48]
Hannah Kroonblawd is a Ph.D candidate at Illinois State University. A graduate of the MFA program at Oregon State University, her work has appeared in or is forthcoming from Sycamore Review, The Chattahoochee Review, and The Cossack Review, among others.