of Mary cradling Jesus's

thin

limp

corpse.

I tell Krista what to say

so he'll know she's for real,

so he'll know I'm for real.

She doesn't sidle.

She doesn't shift.

She stalks right up to him.

"It reminds him of you," she says,

"the way you held him the night he died."

The statue shatters on the floor.

Jesus's head pops off,

shoots through my feet,

rolls under the shelf across the aisle.

Mickey brushes past Krista,

making another escape.

She grabs his wrist,

her fingers a handcuff.

"Look! I don't have time to chase you

while you pretend you don't want to talk to him.

So let's just do this, okay?"

He scowls down at her.

"Who are you?"

"I'm no one."

She lets go of his wrist.

"I think that's the point."

The ocean's rhythm

isn't.

I count the seconds between waves

and realize that

they crash when they crash,