Tithing

The day is quietly opening.
And so am I.
I'm content,
yet bruised and soft at the edges
like a plum.
The ache stored inside  
the music box of my heart.
 
I will leave it there for another day.
There are things to do today,
places to go. Today I will  
set foot in a church for the first time  
 
in years. Wondering if God will have me.
But I will give thanks for this life that,
though touched by suffering,
is full and bountiful.
 
Yesterday, the cat brought home a slender,
graceful wedge of wood,
curving like an arc, a halo,
like some answer to an unknown question,
left it on the apartment steps.
I could only stare at it, curl and uncurl
 
my fist in reverent awe
for the strange blessing it was.
Surely it was a good omen. I am talking  
 
to God more and more each day,
begging for forgiveness for my strange humanity,
for my terrible doubts and questions.
Seeking atonement in others' eyes,
 
for the soft monsters in my closet
and underneath my bed,
for the soft, benign monster that I am.
But love curls and uncurls  
its fingers inside me like a fist, strange  
force in my inconstant self
that never dies, and I  
carry it with me to the grave.