There Is No Title

Tonight, I prayed,
though I did not feel like praying
Afterwards I threw my bag on the floor
Left my shoes at the door
and buried my face in the sofa

Charlotte peers over the cushion at me.

Searching for a way in
I shift on to my side
And she curls into my chest
like she’s trying to plug a hole.

She doesn’t ask me to be anything else

She merely exists in quiet acceptance
They say surrender is sacred.
And yet I have grown so weary of it
and of learning the language of letting go

Charlotte presses her face to my chest

like an alter to my grief,
She catches my tears and purrs softly
And maybe that is enough for this evening
Not the Ace of Cups,
But warm fur under my chin.