Only the blessed die in church.
You stumbled over your reading,
lost your place,
slipped through the choir-ladies' fingers,
into God's hands.
I imagine you on the other side,
repositioning your reading glasses,
talking over His answer.
Your husband is crying
into the wilderness of my ear
but my sympathies (as they say
on the cards) are with you
and the Lord is with you
(as they say in the service) once
Dot and Rita can find words.
All boxed off. You called,
And in front of the neighbours,
with his heart on his sleeve.
I love the way you didn't pause,