I remember being under my Power Rangers comforter
in the darkness,
and clutching what was left of my teddy bear -
his stuffed stiff arms out in surrender to the pain.
The birds' cracked voices spring
from the white pimpled Dogwood trees,
that shake off winter's bygone youth
to uncover unsure crocus buds.
Mornings always end the same, in a car,
on the way to work, done.
Then comes the time clock, the rolling glances to fellow workers.
And as I start the engine lathe,
'O certe necessárium Adæ peccátum…
quæ talem ac tantum méruit habére Redemptórem! '
Mortal Adam with fruit filled stomach stands.
It was Autumn, and the clouds unfolded like a blanket
filling night under its cover,
and the white worn pages of my prayers, dimmed.
'...they returned by another road' (Mt.2: 12) .
We are a constellation of wills,
surmises life's not worth living;
then, returns home for coffee steaming.
I sifted through lingering memories
living like Lazarus wrapped in doodled notes in folders,
stiff in my desk drawer - slowly coming to light.
Bartholomew left the world
the way we all do:
in a red and white martyrdom;
faith that peels your flesh