A sole soldier strolls the walk where my mother
gazes over to the palisades, silvery as the bridge's
towers. Inside, gold-threaded tapestries
are faded to a comic book's colors, the crucifixes
splintered, Christ's face as pocked by worm holes
as attic beams in our old house. My mother
bows to a relic holder or the lost bones it had once
displayed, stained glass painting her red and green.
In the garden, the air is herb scented. We rest on
a bench to listen to monks chanting in the chapel.
She squeezes my hand. I must be quiet. I turn
six next week. The voices rise and fall like arches.
My mother will die and so will I and I
don't want us to. Like paradise, they sound.
-
Issue 54
-
Editor's Note
-
Poetry
-
Fiction
-
Book Review
- David Rigsbee reviews Blue Rust
by Joseph Millar
- David Rigsbee reviews Blue Rust