The elder's wife.

Sometimes, I consider writing

down all my sins and pinning

them to my shirt. Or maybe holding

a sandwich board that reads

“I’m not an elder’s wife,

but I play one on TV.”

I can hold a hand as hard

as I hold a smile, but is

this the real me or is the real

me the one who came before

and spit on any desire for hope

I ever had?

Then I know from the deep down,

walking one day should-to-shoulder

with a daughter whose love is the

ephemeral whisp I keep pinching

with the tiniest bit of luck.

He made me for this moment

and all the “those moments”

that I hardly ever measure up to.

But oh, how He measures me

with a generous cup, spilling over,

spilling over.