Meditations On Faith

fingering the beads held
together by a metal chain,
i'm bonded to my father.
my attic pulls up scenes of
us in church pews, the
congregation singing. in
silence, we listened to the
priest ramble on about
crackerjack battles and
man-made struggle. as i
wrap the cord around my
wrist, i murmur hushed,
disjointed, litanies of a frail
body. celestial utterances
trap me in a warehouse
of stockpiled trophies.
centered on the past, my
focus is drawn to recycled
lines of exercised vespers.
we swallowed them on the
level as children in weekly
catechism, still, i glean an
inaudible buoyancy in the
congruous mingling. the
oblong beads are a
telegraph wire, the solvent
partnership of man and
creator. the unbolting of
bottled up showers, an
excavation of riddles.

Ash Slade lives in Wolcott, Connecticut, and has written poetry for seventeen years. Previous publications include pieces in the Trouvaille Review, San Antonio Review, and most recently, The Lincoln Underground. Hobbies include: reading poetry, classic films and folk music.