• Vol. 02
  • Chapter 09
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It's Sunday morning, early.
What light there is leaks
Through a crack in the east's
night-heavy sky. Sour, surly.

He'd been in this fight
For years. Battles lost,
Battles won, a borne cross,
On the long walk into night.

That last Friday, the priest came.
The green baize card table,
Covered in lace, cradled a bible,
A tabernacle, a flickering flame.

Sacramental words were spoken.
The Lord's Prayer, a final confession,
Deliverance from evil, a profession
Of faith. A wafer of bread was broken.

Light on the tongue, a salvation
Of sorts, seemingly weightless,
Tasteless, yet, somehow, gracious.
For him, at least, a fifteenth station.