BENEDICTION
At the close of Sunday
worship I bowed my head to my father’s
raised hand, allowed the Holy Ghost
to deliver me back into the world
wrapped in the arms of the risen Word.
I don’t know if the rest of the congregation
bowed their heads because mine always was
each week I received this gift. My father,
having stepped down from his pulpit,
stood at the same level as the rest of us
to send us forth,
send me,
cupped in the Maker’s palm.
Around a dinner table heavy with Sunday
pot roast, holding hands for grace,
I felt his skin, the dampness in the palm
that had raised over my head and brought down God’s
blessing, and his. And the Sabbath
afternoon eased out before us like a road,
a good journey waiting in sunlight,
one lane unreeled through abandoned
pasture, rusted barbed wire failing,
twisted, from posts.
from Love Poem
—from Rattle #65, Fall 2019
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Peter Munro: “I wanted to be a musician. I tried really hard. By the end of high school I knew I was fucked: my ears were not good enough. Just that simple. So here I am, stuck making goddamn poems.” (web)
