On Sundays
On Sundays when I wake alone again
to the dog’s snoring, a day of keeping house,
the bells ringing from the church next door,
I remember that we pray before different altars—
his a trembling ship at sea, a few lights in the rainy
darkness, and out there he is not someone’s spouse,
not someone’s son, but someone far from here, at war.
At home, things are not the way they were.
Sometimes I dream myself into an old life—
a game of tag in the driveway, the cats sleeping
in the shade—there was always another hour
for reading, always my mother laughing on the phone,
and so much time between child and wife,
so many well-worn prayers, for God to keep me.
But I knew things then I don’t know now—
that God was real, and I would never be alone.