Poem of the Week: “Untitled”

  • Graphic Breea Kobernick


Burning thoughts embodied
in a candle at my Grandmother’s
solitary it lights
and slow
the prayer is

Sometimes granted
the Saint and I meet at liquor
offering coins
the burn is subsided
as faded and framed

pictures of God
soothe out eyes to sympathy

Understood, the answer
generous cold wind downs the street
gratitude exists
all I’ve got to give
back to him

The prayer is
sometimes buried
unrecognizable the response
under the melting wax of this atheism
Solidified all through the bitter
stifling wind

Cold resentment
All I’ve got to throw
Right back at him

We could be liberated
if the prayer did not exist
But I end in my longing
her home—
as though it’s not
another summoning

he knows exactly what
it is.

Unanswered calls.
we like to think
the number’s not disconnected
only briefly out of service
every year—

Every goddamn year.

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