A Sunday Sacrilege
April 26, 2015
In my heart resides a rage;
something dreadful to contain.
I stand upon a precipice
prepared to burst and explode.
There is a violence in my soul
that wants to master and control,
to wreak indignation on
someone I don’t even know—
on someone who, if I had passed
him in the street would stay unknown.
I am a man of peace who wages war;
who wants to embrace the foe,
drawing near to one afar
with fingers interlocked around his throat.
Who is this savage who stares at me
eyes rimmed-red from a darkened glass?
Whose mouth is this: a tight-lipped
line of crimson slashed across
such a terrible face? Lord
God have mercy on my soul.
Christ have mercy on my soul.
Lord have mercy—for I can’t.
April 27, 2015
Yesterday morning I found a full-
feathered mourning dove chick
and saved her from my cats. She spent
the day within my side-screened porch
protected from fang and claw.
That evening I returned her to
a high branch in a tree.
But in the night came a storm
and in the morning she was gone;
no stray feathers beneath the tree,
no Cheshire grins from my cats.
Perhaps she’s found in morning rain.