Exemption

The station wagon is still in the back row,

the one with the rusted-out wheel well.

I watch it from the road as I go,

listening for the start of the bell.

I remember the handle on the heavy oak door,

how the oil on the wood felt like skin.

I don’t go across that threshold anymore

to be told where the holiness should begin.

The dust in my living room catches the light

in a long, sloping beam of quiet gray.

It’s the same sun, hitting me just right,

without having to ask me to stay.