Poetry
Nicene Creed
In the name of
the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit
They say bad things come in threes
two hospital stays, the bed half-empty, Aunt on morphine
And with bad things come memories:
tunnel vision, a hand to hold, steaming pumpkin pie
They say bad things come in threes
knees buried in church pews, wilted flowers, faces turned white
We all say in the name of
the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit
while we crack our necks to see God
and lose everything because of it.
About Eleven Years Ago
Mom had two hands on the wheel,
white car tearing through the intersection
with the sun reaching its highest peak
Y o u called, once, twice, claiming
it was the changing of the wind
that kept y o u from reaching out,
that the father’s arms y o u assured me
y o u had, had temporarily grown tired
Once, as a child, I sat at the front door
with the chipped brown paint, waiting
like some dog, and counted the
hangnails on my fingers
How naive I was to think
that the silence wouldn’t louden
or that mom’s eyes would brighten
I wonder what you’d say now, y o u
and your shining armor
never saving any of my days.
Carolina in March
In the early evening
we sat near the stream,
wading, waiting for
the fire of the eastern
mountains to subside—
for the line dividing
us to to grow thinner,
transparent, like the
wings of the butterfly on
my shoulder, but
as time moved the
howl of the wind
loudened and your eyes
grew sullen, just as all things do—
the sparrow resting above
our heads crooked its neck
as if it also knew
that this had come to a close.
Morning Rituals
when i wake, now,
in the white morning
with the sun grabbing hold
of me, i imagine you
all curled up like
the snow on the roofs
of the houses we used to know
you with your gentle eyes,
searing into me
and that red-wine voice
being the music i’ve spent
a lifetime searching for
once, in january, we
watched the cardinals
swarm around us,
creating a fiery haze
o, how it was the strangest thing—
you amidst all that was good,
you, amidst me