Alexander Rabb CC
He wakes at midnight,
pulls on yesterday’s clothes,
tugs on his good boots and sits
in the dark, waiting
for the microwave’s glowing numerals
to fade into morning’s white noise.
Sixteen hours later,
he hobbles towards me
with swollen ankles, legs
stiff as stick ponies.
“Wear your sneakers,” I scold.
He answers, At my funeral,
you can put my boots on a table
in the back of the church.
Searcher at the Christian Retreat
A woman kneels at the altar,
her spine twisted.
Is pain the path to you?
In a pew, a man bends his forehead
to his clasped hands.
Do you speak to him?
Soldered into stained glass--
icons of hope and power.
Are you the light straining through?
A murmur of air. I place my prayer
on the tiny breeze.
Take it if you wish.
Peggy Turnbull began writing poetry after retiring from her work as a university librarian. She lives in Wisconsin in a medium-sized city on the shore of Lake Michigan. She has developed a recent interest in identifying local wildflowers and considers herself lucky to be able to find them on her neighborhood walks. Her first chapbook, The Joy of Their Holiness, is forthcoming from Kelsay Books. Her poetry has been recently published in Bramble, Sheila-Na-Gig, Rats Ass Review, and Poetry Superhighway.
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