you don’t believe in gods

but you drew me this map to Grace Cathedral last night
on the penultimate page of my ragged journal
you didn’t overturn while I was in the shower, no matter
how wildly I wished you would; at the feet of a crucifix
older than America, I bruised votives brighter
than rainbow sparklers blooming through sweet
and waxy vanilla, and the flames were only a chemical reaction,
no longer penance for beating the alarm to give you
nine more minutes despite promising to wake you,
or the bus pass you pretended not to be leaving
for me or the two mugs of milk tea I foraged
while you packed, both versions of my mother before me,
and you don’t believe in gods, but you still took my picture
on the steps of every altar where I forgot to sign the cross.

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