by Amy Soricelli
Frances spoke God better than anyone I knew.
Spoke it in her room with the rosary beads hanging accusingly from the bedpost -
solemn hand fixed on the white bible etched with gold cross on the front
and random Aunt-penciled wishes on the inside cover.
Frances spoke God with her eyebrows raised shoulders straight -
she faced the window that overlooked the alley where the family deep with brown eyed kids
kept chickens in a wire cage.
The clatter would rise like holy smoke up to the window where she prayed.
Frances spoke God in class - down the hallways wallpapered with grabby, evil
hands pulling pigtails and hate from behind their ears like lonely uncles with coins.
It was all she was, that Frances - with her serious smile wrapping her whispers in thin cloth
like church wafers with their brittle secrets
and Frances...speaking God better than anyone I knew.