Frail Saint

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.