HOME | DD

Description

I marked a little cross
in my Hymnal every time

you would say, “Play this one
at my funeral” -- the best times
were those jocular Wednesday
evenings, pounding out the same
old anthems in the catacombs,
across the empty nave -- euphony
be damned, the congregation would
get their earful Sunday morning.
Ten years after, estranged,
but caging your heart
always in my obdurate heart, I weep
when they forget to sing
ye holy angels bright, ye blessed
souls at rest -- they say
you have no need --
but I am standing in motes of dust
from all your ceramic cherubim,
singing hold thou thy cross before
my closing eyes, knowing all this time
I should have had my daughter
calling you “Auntie,” and you have been
a saint but are no angel.