Voices on the Wind Voices in the Garden
a box of antipathy in a garden of what ifs by jacob erin-cilberto crosses upon a shelf the rosary reality two Hail Mary's short of a bead of water a droplet from a heaven's cloud he is immersed in confusion always knew his rain would come but finds the drizzled parchment bleeding words of stone from a faith he buried years ago in the back yard of his parents' house blocks from where he lies now (maybe to himself) getting drenched in torrential dust, the red clay of morning at his feet a psalm pinching his cuff the tie a bit crooked hands folded, he stares up at nothing wondering if he really did make his own bed, and if roses would grow here if he prayed hard enough.