          Can I still call you
                    Emily? Not long after
we last saw each other, I too changed

          my name. Dropped T.J.
                    to take on my given name.
Dropped discerning the priesthood,

          reading my morning scripture
                    and praying the rosary
each night by my bedside,

          to discern dick. My life either way
                    would be spent
on my knees. I’m writing you now

          after all this time
                    because you also understand
some lines can’t be uncrossed. Because

          that dark buzzed gym
                    where I kissed
your shoulder is the last artifact

          from before
                    I still keep.
And because I wonder if, for you,

          too, Sister, the past
                    now lies parallel
beside you in furrowed rows.

          There are times, the sun
                    gutting the spines
of redwoods, pooling on a heap

          of ash-laced dirt, yes,
                    or holding my husband
on his worst days

          when none of it survives,
                    when it seems possible
to have never had a youth,

          to have emerged fully formed,
                    purely this. I don’t
turn back often, though I did

          go to your convent once
                    to look for your face
among the wimples. A seagull

          wandered in, its screeches
                    flanking the altar.
The marbled saints

          all leered. I left a quarter
                    in the donation box,
but lit no candles, said no

          intentions. I didn’t know
                    which of us
to pray for. And in that dotted light,

          the saints’ expressions
                    all changed. Teej
you used to call me.

poetry-magazineDear Sister Agnes,

poetry-magazineFor the Cult-Themed Party

Dear Sister Agnes,

For the Cult-Themed Party