As pressing one’s finger upon the sore
We think is only ours; as constructing
Awkward jumbles from the punk* we’ve held in store,
Building with bone-hard fingers and thinking
With clenched mind to bring ourselves to the wish
We built, we foolishly bludgeon. Inept,
And blundering, we beat ourselves to banish
A bruise that seemed to come while we slept.
And once we are too frail exhaustion brought
And sit amidst the tumble of our tears,
A whisper which we fled yet somehow sought
Cross-cradles us and softly sifts our fears.
So Love did tongue Elijah from his cave.
So too for us, who inside yet do rave.
*Wood so decayed as to be dry and crumbling
To download a printable PDF of this Article from
Dominicana Journal, Winter 2014, Vol LVII, No. 2, CLICK HERE.
