My father’s turn for Sundayschool unearthed
In tender minds the same way as a newborn
Full-breath, how fear could molt a ripened fruit
for squeezing like a heart to taint to taste to rule
And juice, mingled with the old pages splayed
My father’s gospel was beating drums.
To scare the devil with hot fruit fire and
His phobias, with stone bodies flexed
And I did, I smelled citrus in the cemetery.
Strung like beads of light amidst the graves
We did not wake the rocks with laughter
They’d think our feet were thunder.
Tag: reminiscing
You struck the rock, prophet
with a shovel until
yellow cryptograms strewn out
rose in the breeze relieved the
rustling of bible leaves on your neck.
Broke your voice for us like
a pomegranate offered me a seed
with pain in your face I liked
to stare at and searching
my head frantic, your eyes were a little boy
some treasure always spread encrusted
under the first layer of earth
handed us linens and grandmother quilts
to cover over ground. You ached
for a death
we’d need to stir the dirt
a stir perhaps pull out a waif
in your old clothes. people-
clients told me despite it all
I looked like the soul
of my father. A sacred pause
in me each instance. That night
I stirred through my head words
to find a gentle lure for your ghost
without you even knowing.
Ana Celeste Poetry 