by Bridget Lowe

There were so many nights of loneliness, the word
prowl comes to mind, the needle and thread
were as bored as I.

My mind was elsewhere.
The front stoop, crying. I operated solo.
I was living in New York at the time.

My closet was full of demure clothing
for positions like secretary and teacher, the demeaning
wardrobe of the demeaned.

A woman on her knees
understands what it’s like when people look
and think they see you

We all have a part to play, the nuns liked to say,
in the Lord’s universe.
I knew that this was mine.