After pumping gas I realized I had lint tangled in my braid. How many people noticed?
Probably none.
Instead, they saw the sleeping horses inside my chest; only an hour before,
thundering around my rib cage with no restraint.
Balmy days are best at regarding my confessions:
silent Hail, Mary's until I bleed.
sorry. sorry. sorry. sorry. sorry.
and sorry to you, especially.
Picking at the black speck in my flax, my soul remembers:
blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs
is the kingdom of heaven.
And, I might add,
broken are their bones under the weight
of grief.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment