Some years, faith was flimsy, like the curtains on the windows that anyone could look through if they wanted while I dressed. Passersby could see the shape of me. I didn’t mind. I threw myself casually to strangers. If prayer is giving myself wholly over, I was praying to the street out my bedroom window. Take me, I’m yours. I didn’t want to belong to myself, indiscriminate in my offerings to others, the elements. Two in the morning, running naked into the dark ocean, I’d filled myself with wine, was warm enough inside. Take me, I’d say again, to anyone or anything. Until I was clutched by the right hands, carried to safer waters. I held a candle and leaned back for the quiet splash.