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POETRY

“After You Believe,” read by Phil Flott.

After You Believe

The constrictions in your chest loosen,
Fervent rivers flow together,
vivify the dead ocean.

Worms in your head die.
You pass them.

Muscles re-knit to tendons, to bone.
You heave stones like Samson,
wrestle bears like David.

Others place confidence in you,
ask you to tend their sheep, too.
Why not?
That is your purpose,
in life your kaleidoscope.

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“Dip the Tip of His Finger in Water,” read by Phil Flott.

Dip the Tip of His Finger in Water

It moves stale like the acid
from digested sugar.

When I swallow,
sinus mucous is the only wet I know.

The cracks in my tongue burn
like alcohol on a tenderized face.

I would take even one drop of coffee,
The scald of steam rising from it.
Anything wet—the lubrication
from my used car oil
could moisten my tongue.

The osmosis from this little good
would disappear;
the water would dance
as if on a hot iron.

More than my always drying flesh,
one atom of your plentiful water
would relieve the bleak desert in my head that pounds
like four sledgehammers on a steel beam,

would take the tension from my spine,
now always pleading up,

at least for a split flash of time.
Father Abraham.

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Phil Flott is a retired carpenter who became a priest but is now retired from that also. He loves the fact that so many magazines publish works glorifying the Lord Jesus.

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Image: The Rich Man in Hell and the Poor Lazarus in Abraham’s Lap, from Das Plenarium. Original public domain image from The MET.