Second Chances

My hands are awkwardly clumped together like flowers,
a sign that things could get better.
If I was a religious woman I’d be kneeling by your side
with my palms backed up with prayer scrolls,
trying to bridge the fear , maybe this isn’t enough.

But my mother never called me Gabriel,
and all I ever learnt is if we buried our heads for long enough.
Our mouths became glow-worms which could
dissolve the distance between us.
Your father warned you of dying before God knew your name,
so you practised the saints before nightfall .

But you were only thing that I ever needed to believe in,
so I find myself staring at empty spaces.
And waiting my hands perched, trembling
because this is all I know about the afterlife,
and I’m waiting for that second chance.