Ordinary Saints

Jennifer Miller

A cup of coffee is the holy grail in winter,

black, steaming salvation

sloshing against the rim of a sturdy, white cup

in a diner on a roadside

between the place you had to leave

and the place where your soul wants to be.

The waitress’s name tag says Magdalena,

but she doesn’t know she is a priestess

in this divine nexus

where the jukebox is the choir

and the holy mystery is hidden

in small letters at the bottom of the menu.

There are pilgrims

who walk 500 miles

to see a relic housed in a glass case

and kneel at an altar

where whispered prayers

try to bend God’s ears.

And there are moments

in the temple of ordinary saints

where a long-haul driver

speaks with the tongue of angels

and the words of the prophets

are scribbled on the bathroom walls.