They gather to share what they were given
hymns passed down like heirlooms,
faith worn soft from handling.
I sat among them once.
Mouthed the words.
Waited for the burning, the flood, the still small voice.
Nothing.
Just the sound of my own breath
and the congregation rising without me.
I stopped waiting.
Not with a door slammed
just a quiet knowing.
The way you stop checking for a letter
that was never addressed to you.
Some people are handed fire.
I was handed different bones.
I am not lost.
I was never meant for their country.