The Bookshop Evangelist

She arrives with a flounce,
a bell-ringer at the door
in a purposeful manner,
and before I even see
the graven image
hung around her neck
I know what I am dealing with,
it’s in her posture —
the parochial way she holds herself
as she quietly tsks tsks tsks
at books on the shelf,
the way she nods
when she finds a kindred spirit
points to one up high on a shelf
“He’s Good,” she says out loud
and I know it’s a capital G,
like her god.
I feel like I should sit up straight
and uncross my legs proper
but my own talismans give me away
before I can adjust myself;
I want to tell her we are all
made with love
but she averts her eyes
and walks right past,
the crucifix seemingly larger
with each breath.