and i’ll do a damn good job. the priest
will send a recommendation to the monsignor,
who will send a glowing review to the archbishop,
who will skip a few steps for the cardinal,
and maybe the pope of the people will hear your name said aloud.
he’ll say it one day in the gold-lined vatican city balcony and you’ll laugh,
because you’re not even catholic, and i’m not even catholic,
and we’ve just played the biggest prank on the church since
the time that those kids teepeed the courtyard at st. joseph’s.
and the pope will not know—he’ll still say grace
falls at the hands of the meek, and our meerkat smiles will chuckle,
because you’re not dead yet, because you’re still here,
because you’re just waiting for me to come home
from the hospital, your glazed eyes not watching the tv,
just fixed on the clock that hangs crooked above the screen.
and i’ll do a damn good walk into the house, give you another
hug, just like last time—and i’ll tell myself that this is not another joke.
that this isn’t just a fever dream in a moment i play over and over again
to hear your yell of relief over my shoulders. and maybe it’s real.
and maybe it is, but i’m not sure the pope can hear my prayers
once we meet again, when our waking bodies altar our flesh and ash.