Joanne Lowery

Death considers converting

to Catholicism, because life is a numbers game
and 1,042,501,000 mortal beings can’t be wrong
about the essential sweetness of Mary
and the role of her know-it-all son.

Now that he thinks about it
(now that he thinks) having them to dinner
though boring sounds like an easy do:
one guest becomes the host, feeds the others,
washes his scythe before brandy and cigars.

But the prospect of weeks of classes wearies
his soul, his fingers too gnarled for beads,
his mind too nimble for repetition
of catechism and formulaic prayers.
It’s a tradition you need to be born into

but birth is antithetical to his mission.
He’d rather be out there liberating souls
for their heavenly reward: he shows them
how alone they are, how wrong they’ve been.
So when he goes to confession
it’s all good works, no reason to stay.
Sinlessly he leaves, his white knee
making a rare appearance
as he genuflects by the door.

Joanne Lowery’s most recent collections are Medusa’s Darling from March Street Press and Seven Misters from Pygmy Forest Press. She lives in Michigan.