Tarnished Psalm

She awoke thinking: Sunday.

Had to be—that crack of light

slivering her footsteps

from bed to bath, silence

anointing her solitude.

Blessedness. A word her mother

proffered frequently,

hissed as steam issued

from the scarred kettle

hoisted in benediction above

her favorite cup for tea ... 

No. Her mother hated tea,

was caught chewing

raw coffee beans

between pregnancies.

Whose recollection

had she borrowed, what

wounded sanctimony?

It couldn’t be Sunday—

that was yesterday. Or

will be tomorrow. Either way,

there was work to be done.