When I reached St. Peter, he was too small
to crawl. I introduced myself
as someone’s mother,
and he consulted his big Book of Roles.
Stand there, said Peter, pointing
to the line with all the other hopeless
mothers.
But, I said, I’ve been there all along.
The woman in front of me had been reading
Lamentations for hundreds of years.
I needed to hear my baby breathing, but couldn’t
over all her tears.
Give me a ribbon, said Peter,
who sucked the silk.
Give me your hand, said Peter.
He suckled my thumb.
My hair still grew fast as a pregnant woman’s.
My fingernails, short when I arrived
that evening, needed cutting soon.
Give me your papers, said Peter.
Then he gummed them. I don’t trust my eyes,
he said, but believe in this mouth.
Give me your heart, said Peter.
I hadn’t slept that long in ages: five hours,
six hours, seven.
Stop this, I said. Stop now.