Replete
I have learned
a million metaphors:
a hole in the sky
where there was a star
or just a tree gone
and wind blowing
where no branches are,
a voice I cannot hear,
an empty hand.
I know six pairs of shoes
fitted to his feet,
the memory of steps,
places they have been,
a walking cane that leans,
a pillow for his head,
the joke, the belly laugh,
everything that masks
what I cannot tell.
Communion wafers are thin
as moonlight;
wine galls the tongue.
Take this cup
and spill dark seeds
of blood upon the ground.
Having drunk my fill,
I cannot begin again.
Sue Scalf
|