Tag: forgiveness
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Arguing with the Dead
Arguing With the DeadBegin by calling her by name,not the one etched on the granite monument in front of you,not the one printed on the birth certificate—that temporary name another motherwas forced to dream upin the haze of post-labor fade,in the ecstasy of seeing youfor the first time—something that grew for nine monthsinside this other,and…
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Inside the Places that Light Can Not Reach
Inside the Places that Light Can Not ReachTrenches carve silence in the ocean’s deepest foldswhere pressure crushes and light dies before arrival—beneath ice pressed tight by a thousand years,where silence sleeps in frost older than stars—limestone cathedrals rising from the littoral hush,where even echoes have forgotten the sun—Deep in the brain’s hippocampal fold, where memory…
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Remembering First Snow
The snow in its gloaming has been heaping field and highway with deep, white silence.The pine, fir, hemlock are draped in ermine,the poorest twigs ridged in deepest pearl.From the shed’s roof a rooster crows and stiff rails now down, flutter to the ground.The silent father listens to the noiseless workof beating snow birds whirling by.…
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One Tough Dog
The dog had been shot and knew of pain-the bullet that enters from a mean master dishing out daily doses of cruelty. The dog, had slinkedaway to die, but lived— the bullet scared over, resting perilously close to his heart,rubbing silently against muscle and bone.You didn’t find him. someone kinder did,took him to the shelter,where…
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Fathers and Sons: Walking the Broken Road
He took his boy along the path to show him all the things he killed.The rifles were left behind, not in the truck, but at home,secure in the gun case.He had his fill of all that.It’s been more than a yearsince he closed the shop and spent his golden momentsorganizing the nuts and bolts,the tools,…
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Epitaph as My Father’s Son
There is no house that is not my father’s.There are no fixed stars,just shaken bits of misery, tiny disasters tethered to hope.From the house he loved,I feel the slap of his inner pain,fist waves hitting the footers.It was easy for him to fight back,(he had to do it to get anywhere)harder for him to forgive…
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Nun Sense
Sister Dorothea would whack my knuckles with the flat edge of a desk ruler trying to knock some nun sense into me every five times I messed up on fractions. She had that well lived-in roundness the faithful get after hard years of serving Christ in the smallest crosses of existence. From the back she…