The Screw Turns

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The Screw Turns


All Saints Day. After a sermon 

on Stephen, rain pelts like pebbles 


on the shed’s tin roof. The difference 

in Phillips and flathead, I say, 


marking the air with a cross, 

is that one keeps you from slipping 


off when the pressure mounts. 

She hefts the small but real 


Dewaults she got for turning 

five and finds the bit that fits. 


Tongue out, her breath comes in spurts, 

pink Champion shirt bent over


the task even her lungs stop 

to watch. Stephen, too, never asked


for help as the screw turned, 

never prayed that time speed up 


to get this over with. And if, 

looking on, I pray the opposite,  


forgive me, too. I know not

what I do.


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