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Saints Walk In The Dark

She was thin and strong and made no concessions to beauty.

She had the buzzed head of a saint. The distant, sad eyes.

An old, olive green army jacket that was too big for her,

swallowed her, and khaki fatigues, and faithful, worn boots.

She had a canvas knapsack over her shoulder, filled with a bible

and a silver cross made from Judas’ pieces of silver, and holy water,

and the journal she kept of the demons fought, sent back to hell,

all the children set free from the dark, all the pain and horrors.

It was five am on a Monday Morning in the old city, cold and rainy,

and the sun not back yet from the underworld, and I saw her turn her

head and look at me, curious and a shiver of hopefulness, there in the

Greyhound Station. What did she see? Was there still a flicker of light in me?

The next bus would be here in an hour, and she’d be gone to the next mission,

the next town, the next demon to fight that could not be slain until the end

of the old heaven and the old earth. I saw she wanted me to follow, to be a soldier,

to a rider of light into the dark places, to follow and be what I should always have been.

Would I follow her?

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