The Last Rite

after “Having It out with Melancholy” by Jane Kenyon

Gram would say that medication was for the unholy,

that true faith alone could drive out every ghost

and demon. She said it was you

who weighed faith, deciding when prayers are

pious enough, certain

to cure the tormented. She’d lean close to

press her crucifix to my brow, bidding peace to come,

though, like a thief in the night, it fled, never to return again.