I have to touch you to know if you’re real.
Have you found God yet in these Catholic halls
adorned with saints and half melted candles?
In the alcove by Mother Mary, the priest speaks
and the tongues of the departed wag behind him.
Is he deaf to you who linger like the sharp point of a quill
without a pot of ink to make your message known?

I dreamed your father set my shoes out for me.
He polished and shined the brown leather,
gave them new laces and offered to slip them on my feet
if only I’d sit down and stay with you both. 
How did he find me here, walking next to you
asking questions about your life,
asking why you had taken so long to come home.