I can not tell my left from right these days.
I’ve been sending my prayers to a deity in the east.
She held out a hand to me,
dropping her scales in the river to do so,
her very name the word compassion.

That constant churning sound that follows
each step I take towards you, my father
six feet underneath, with the scraps
of a few dog eared and heavily highlighted
workbooks from the last prophet’s masterclass.

Occasionally I slip on one of mother’s tears.
She’d spent years trading them in, three equal one Hail Mary,
at the nearest Mission. Consequently my birth was a privileged one.
But the wise women warned her, history always repeats itself.
And here I am trying to light joints rolled with bible paper.

Amanda Faye is many things — some good, some not so much — including founding editor of Alyss Lit.  You can find her sputtering nonsense on Twitter via @alyssdiablo.