Sustenance

Here in the mailroom I imagine the saints
as secretaries.
I do not know these perfect strangers
who supposedly surpassed their own sinfulness through supplication and suffering,
but I imagine that I do.
I imagine the mail machine stamping my envelopes
as their voice-stamped prayers.

I imagine God ripping each open
as I rip open each received envelope,
the difference being that He has read and heard it all before
from every saint and sinner’s letterpressed lips.

This is where I lose my imaginings.
I cannot fathom the thoughts of God, the curve of inky tongue in answer.
So I pound on the saints’ doors without decorum
thrust my empty hands before them
ask for some supplement to sustain me.

Sustain me through the silence.