Wednesday, 15 September 2010

Feast - Our Lady of Sorrows

and a sword will pierce your own soul too 
Gathered into my arms
As bloody and helpless as the first day.
The warmth of your mortality leaching away
Into the ungrateful earth.
I glean my treasure trove from all that remains.
The smell of skin, a childhood scar,
Calloused hands,
Earnest dark eyes
Fading now.

Rememberings
Of your cheek against my breast,
Arms around my neck,
hands entwined in hair.
Not this remnant of humanity
But my heart’s pride,
My Son.


wordinthehand2010

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