Each bead a link, each link a chain, each chain to hold
close what is so distant: flesh & bone & earth & faith.
Faith for the little flag someone has stabbed into loam
above each burial site. These mysteries house manners
of all type, to pray each is to pray all, so that Oh Lord
you might open my lips to the words & serve unto me
as muse for the joyful, the sorrowful, the glorious days
& all these luminous nights spent under cover of star
spent moongazing in hope of seeing some sign of truth.
Perhaps it comes with the passing overhead, a flight
of birds & the sound of air moved by so many wings
at once like the sound of roiling water atop a fiery range
where three large pots have been set together at a boil.
The seething air like the sibilant sounds of any serpent.
close what is so distant: flesh & bone & earth & faith.
Faith for the little flag someone has stabbed into loam
above each burial site. These mysteries house manners
of all type, to pray each is to pray all, so that Oh Lord
you might open my lips to the words & serve unto me
as muse for the joyful, the sorrowful, the glorious days
& all these luminous nights spent under cover of star
spent moongazing in hope of seeing some sign of truth.
Perhaps it comes with the passing overhead, a flight
of birds & the sound of air moved by so many wings
at once like the sound of roiling water atop a fiery range
where three large pots have been set together at a boil.
The seething air like the sibilant sounds of any serpent.
|
John T. Howard is a Colombian American writer, translator, and educator. He has served as Writer-in-Residence at Wellspring House Retreat and holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Indiana University. His poetry can be found at Hayden's Ferry Review, Salamander, Notre Dame Review, PANK Magazine, The South Carolina Review, and elsewhere. His creative nonfiction can be found in The Cincinnati Review. He resides in the greater Boston area with his partner and their daughter, and he teaches Analytical Writing at Bryant University.
|
