May 7, 2008
He is kneeling.
Joints locked in grief
as he looks ahead
to the altar where
he imagines Celtic knots
unwind from the crucifix
and begin to tie themselves
around his neck.
He reaches back
on the church bench,
fingertips finding it
suddenly riddled with scars-
names and serial numbers
that once belonged
on violet wrists.
His eyes close
as the requiem starts
to unravel the invisible
skein of a memory:
a red-hot iron branding
cold skin of a son
that could've been.
The bell tolls
for his last supper,
its mournful knell
breaking the glass casket,
spilling his conscience
like wine poured into chalices
that were her fingers.
His shaking hands clasp
in repetitive prayer for
his eyes to see in
shades of gray,
so he will not remember
the yellow ribbon his daughter
is tying around 88 stones
of an unmarked grave.
[This was written for a writing prompt in 
workshop forums on the subject of racism.]
workshop forums on the subject of racism.]
Labels: dark, death, poetry, sad
