Hero

Illness and meds leave him, sometimes,
confused, like one half-waking.
"He always was your hero," he mutters.
She pauses, surprised: "Who?"
"John Kennedy"--a bit resentful, jealous.
Despite the ether of life going on
with its going away, she laughs,
tender, amused--touches his shoulder:
"You're my hero."





[Editorial note: Yes, this post is a week early.]

Tombs

Absences eat words.
We can write and talk
about what's been removed,
measure the cavity--
an inch for every
thing we miss--
but the nothing
left behind
still dries our tongues.

Merciful Savior,
what must Your followers,
Your loved ones, have felt
when all that they had left
was the terrible yawn
of Your body
emptied of You.

You, Who felt what it is
to be forsaken, fill
these, our absences, with
Your most tender light.
Through emptiness spill
astonishing resurrections.

Communion Reflections

See
my grandma's arthritic hands
encircling a clean white sock,
squeezing the deepest purple juice
from grapes found wild
in her dying son's backyard.
Taste it--thick, warm as blood,
pungent as suffering.