Fire

It is a ghost my mother says 
that wakes her up that evening 
when the flames spill
in her house like water.

It is that tap, that gentle rap 
against her arm, she has no doubt, 
that wakes her to the scent 
of hell nearby. 

She wishes, wishes very hard, 
that God be somewhere, but never can 
affirm it.

And yet she swears He sent that ghost 
to her that day. 

My mother trusts in two opposing truths at once:
God really does, and really does not, exist. 
Like life, God happens only when 
all things stack up just right.