She tilts her head, gazes unblinking.
Wisps of fine brown hair graze her high forehead.
Topaz stones wrapped in gold wire hang from her ears.
The silver butterfly with turquoise abdomen rests between her collarbones.
She is a tall woman, this reverend of spirit.
She has passed through her personal fires,
Walked on glowing coals, replanted in new states.
She listens in stillness while I fidget, examine my fingers,
Scratch my cheek, my neck.
The story I tell sounds like a long lament,
A symphony of anger, regret, confusion, loss
The list of adaptations, arrangements, assistance,
The done, would do, will do
Line up like dominoes.
She sighs, blinks like a smiling cat.
Perhaps, she says,
You are rearranging chairs
On the deck of the Titanic.