The Softness of Fire

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

She kneels in the front pew, hands folded, eyes closed,
lips moving in silent devotion, steady as a prayer.
Light spills from high windows, blessing her face soft,
as if heaven itself approves of the grace she wears.

When she speaks, her voice is warmth, quiet and sure,
a balm for the lost, a whisper to the grieving.
She tells them to be kind, patient, gentle, forgiving,
that love is the answer, that anger is a poison.

She leaves the chapel, steps into air thick with shadow,
where hunger waits, silent, where she becomes someone else.
She moves through the dark, through hands that know her,
through lips that call her name in secret and sin.

She smiles in the hallways, her light a soft glow,
her students believing she is all goodness, all grace.
But she watches, listens, collects the words they speak,
the careless betrayals they do not know she sees.

Forgiveness is a virtue, she tells them, smiling,
but she forgives the way fire forgives the burned.
She carries grudges like coins hidden inside her dress,
waits for the moment they will pay what is owed.

No one sees the rot beneath the softness she wears,
the fire she feeds, the hatred she folds like linen.
No one knows the names she whispers before sleeping,
the ones she will cross out when the time is right.

She watches. She waits. And when the moment arrives,
she does not forget. She never forgets. She never will.