Maybe She speaks through sisters, through friends, through strangers.
Maybe She sometimes sounds like mom.
Maybe Their voice is a collective of my neighbors’ gestures. The song the choir seems to sing back to me.
Maybe I ask too decidedly, too unwillingly, with doubt disguised as hope.
Maybe He speaks through the rain or through my green tea.
Maybe He speaks through the croaking green toads at the bank of the pond next to me.
Maybe He speaks through my father’s tone after asking permission, telling me to be careful when I think I already know.
Maybe She speaks with a cold touch, good taste, or warm wind.
I never thought He’d sound like a simple “sure” or an uncomfortable unexpected “have you thought of this?”
I’m certain They speak through the stars and through my pastor. Through the Bible I can’t seem to bring myself to understand.
I’m certain They speak through close calls and euphoric sensations.
I’m convinced They speak to everyone else but me.
But maybe I’ve gotten used to those things, those sounds, those feelings.
Or maybe I don’t know them well enough at all.
Maybe She is much bigger than the things I know or am used to.
And maybe She is exactly what I am used to.
Maybe She speaks through my mom and friends’ affirmations.
Maybe He speaks through my poems or the guys I used to like.
Convincing me I get what I ask for. That’s how it goes, right?
Well, I must’ve been asking wrong without knowing because I live in lack of response.
Or maybe I wasn’t being honest.
And She knew all along, like father’s always do, like strangers always sense.
And She spoke through them replying with what I asked for, and what I didn’t.
And She spoke through the trees, too, just for fun.
And continues to speak through the choir on Sunday mornings.
Convincing me that maybe She listens.
Convincing me that maybe they’ve already spoken, and are speaking as we speak.
Because maybe a little is enough, especially when I know I am weak.