Slightly Holy Sonnet

She raised tiny altars all her life—white

and black like cracked piano keys (She played

in her sleep). They gathered dust all day. Light

couldn’t find them. Still, when singing, she gave

some kind of soft offering with no thought

for answers. Her soul stayed cool towards hell.

Punishment was built in dreams, in prayers she brought

back with her. When she watched her curtains swell

each morning she’d exhale a flatted fifth,

some blueish note. Not an unholy gift

but comment on a path back to daylight. 

She still means to clean those sacred tables,

to display ikons and place scriptures right

where they belong. To keep them whole. Stable.