Crisis of Faith
Intellectual.
A Man of Faith.
His dog collar
in a plastic bag beside his bed.
"God forgive me
when I pray that your father
will keep quite in the night."
Neighbours in cancer.
He could talk to me.
A visitor he sensed
could understand.
Here, the equals wait.
He only found out last week.
Shock.
Serving God,
but scared
to meet him early.
A good vicar's wife
(probably called Daphne or Camilla)
dutifully called
with worries of the parish
to hang like a millstone.
I can talk to you.
I have a crisis of faith.
The smell of shit and cabbage
is a great leveller.
Curls of once-blonde hair
held within clenched fists.
"I'll pray for him - your father.
He seems like good company
in better times."
My father thinks
a rat is eating his foot
and that lesbians make love
on his bed.
The next day he had gone.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem