A. Michael McRandall
Unclaimed Epiphany
It’s not the heat,
or even the lack of
prayer from the
congregation—
you wouldn’t expect
salvation
to follow you anyway–
it’s more the hole
in your pocket,
and what must have
fallen through
while dancing with
the boy.
Habits
aren’t so hard to shake,
now are they?
It’s losing them
within the melody—
and consequently
underneath the bed—
that causes such a stir.
So when your usher
trades his Chevy
for the Bishop’s
less than fundamental ring,
and you reach
for the collection plate,
where half a dozen whispers
choke
in unison
on over-leavened Hail Mary’s—
remember
how his hands
exacted miracles
and you
forgot
your name.
If Ever, Oh Ever
If Saturday had worn ruby slippers
I’d have never had to hold your head
above the sink,
or kiss away the sweat—
but Dorothy took those shoes
when she left town.
Then rainbows hid in backseats
laughing softly—
as you wondered
if you’d ever get back home—
while from the trunk
a thousand answers
tapped your name in code,
but you were left without a question,
or a coat.
I had kept you from yourself
when the far side of the window
coyly beckoned,
but I’d never thought
to bolt the door—
so when you drifted
to the sidewalk
on a solitary whisper,
I could only watch you
lie down
in the white heat of the sun—
turn off the music—
and slowly
die of cold.
©2005 by A. Michael McRandall
