by Mark J. Mitchell
No one knew
she was a saint.
Her bones were too
brittle to move.
She prayed, constant,
in her dark room.
Milk appeared.
Bread appeared.
She tossed crusts out
the black door for black birds.
Her knees held up.
Her pain was constant.
She never
received a sacrament.
___
Mark J. Mitchell’s most recent collection is Something to Be from Pski’s Porch.
He’s fond of baseball, Miles Davis and Dante. He lives in San Francisco with his wife, Joan Juster, where he points out pretty things. His pronouns are he/him.