(downstairs neighbor)

My friend who is afraid peeled an apple
under kitchen light. I barely paused
on the back stairs, going up with laundry,
and saw a woman overwhelmed by the lacks
that have begun to collect themselves:
the deaths of friends, an older sister,
the grandchild born too soon.
Then there are the sudden cancers
on her skin, one like a blind eye,
red and empty of all purpose, blistering her forehead:
as if she were a worshipper who had tried to scrub it away,
no longer believing in sight by mystery.

I woke this morning and thought of you, my friend,
how the night before you were standing by your sink,
attentive only to the task at hand
as you worked the apple to its opened flesh.
If only we could see ourselves
as the momentary souls we are,
almost finished before we have truly begun. Surely
we would have such mercy on ourselves
that even our griefs and fears
would become part of the work that feeds our souls,
that devoted attention to the task at hand
wherever it may lead us, that is our souls.