Her Recounting

Ed Cox

I felt his hair against my face
when I prayed, knelt before rows
of candles, guttering red lights.

His long fingers gently covered
the blotches of my spotted hand,
pulsed life as a small animal does.

He spoke of a place, glorious room,
In the far house which is his home.
Listen, he consoled, the door opens,

blind men speak colors, the mute talk,
and the lame walk from their shadows,
the braces and canes falling away.

 

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