Holy Days

The vapor of your face
is a thread
knotted
to a small memory.

The voice I hear

immune to the lightning
and crash ending we all know
in slow motion
and so very violent.


The phone call home
on Christmas night
was heavy as granite and pictures
with a broad understanding
of what little remains
after each breath.

The lungs begin to fill,
sit parallel in the chest,
and are so very close
to the wisest heart.

What grief now lives
on the alter of each precious day
raised above your head
like the host
at Midnight Mass?