Ikon

Ikon

My step-grandmother,
gone now and turned to bones,
had an ikon of Christ
nailed to her living room wall
with a Sacred Heart
that breathed in its red glow.
She talked about it as if it were alive,
feeding it with her fix
of three rosaries a day.
At six
I could barely piss straight with fear
thinking about it,
pulsing day and night.
One day I found the lead that led
to the plug,
the socket and the switch.
The same day
God evaporated.

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