Sunday Calls to My Father

This is what I remember:

Bird-wing weight in the chest,

beat of prayer, hunger

like honey and dread.

The TV buzz — Joel Olsteen,

Charles Stanley pumping

hope through a cavernous strife.

The way his voice lifted

above the still-loud hum

traveled the line of tangled,

too tired wants.

The stack of words,

tower of nothing

leaning on everything.

Fish hook tongues

dancing, an empty forage,

an ample sliver.

The keepsake “darling,” warm

and copper bright, rafting

across the sea.

 

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