Assurance.

The blind Chieftess of hymn

Fanny Crosby

knows all too well

what I am.

Me, the vile offender.

Fanny J. called me out in church

the other day

through the gray woman behind me

belting all off keys

out of her mouth

and into me.

The earth heard her voice.

Grandma Fanny's ghost tingled up

and down my spine

choked me up

and made me feel wretchedly good.

Like I always am.

Organ gusts sat me down again:

-You may be seated.

-Why, thank you. Now, just a minute.

I am not who you think I am, this pew-sitter.

We are not this good-looking, at least, not

most of the time. So why do you overestimate

what I am capable of?

-I don't understand. Why do you underestimate yourself?

You lived on a rock,

lived like a rock

for a long time.

95 years gone strong

lived in bloomers and blindness.

Doubt it-damn it-do it-finish it--

but don't tell me you died alone

because I might die hearing it.

Know that us writer women need

good sisters and men kisses

love followed by making it.

hazy images of the silhouette of your mother

in a sweater waking you up.

And pen pals.

There is more to life than the tangible

but dear Fanny please tell me you had some

thing

or

some

one

to hold.

Give me some assurance.