Exit

Stopped at the light in front of the church.

The poster in the window. I search

for something in me that still cares—

blue and yellow. Clipart. Cupcakes. Prayers.

I used to spend Saturday mornings there,

mixing, measuring, filling the air

with butter and faith and the smell

of belonging. Or I performed it well.

My hands remember the work—

the ache in my shoulders, the quirk

of standing at the oven for hours,

believing I had some kind of powers

to make small kindnesses matter,

to make faith stick like butter and scatter

of sprinkles on cupcakes for people

who believed. I was their steeple.

I don't recognize that woman now.

I can't even remember how

she did it, why she believed,

why she never left, why she grieved

nothing when she finally stopped coming.

The poster asks me to resume humming

the hymns I forgot. The light

turns green. I drive past. It's right

to leave things behind. It's right

to forget you ever fit

into a place like that. To let

it go. I drive. I forget.