elysabeth faslund

(11/23/49 / Thibodaux. Louisiana)

..............For My Father...The Slip, Falling


The slip...falling...
Our Father. I beg
The begging. Kneel.
In kneeling, blooded flesh.
Bloody hands' supplication.
Do not lift my soul, eyes, heart.
Not now. Not this day.
I will not pray, but
Our Father...

Hundreds of staples in my
Creator's legs...
Eyes open to ceiling, tears icing
Cold, stainless...stained
Pain.
Sheeted, still form.
Cold hands.
Our Father...my Father-
Why?

'Daughter, ' whispered split lips,
'I love you.'

The slip...falling...
Our Father!
His eyes, mine. Heart, soul...
Steel belief again, rain prayer
To reality.
Reality to prayer...
Our Father...
Where the compassion suffered
On your cross...
Where, the divine guiding...
Surgeons' hands, bloody.
Tears...blood.
Our Father.
Too high this price...for my
Pauper Father.
Where, your salvation...

The slip...falling...
Our Father.
Hear you curses
Louder than prayer?
Clothe demons, not angels?
Do you hear me? Watch me?
See me place yellow roses
On this stone.

The stone which set you free...
With my Father...
Imprisons me.

Submitted: Tuesday, October 14, 2008
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  • Alison Cassidy (10/18/2008 8:26:00 PM)

    This is brilliant Elysabeth. A superb portrayal of anguish, pain, loss and the paradox of religious vs daughterly love. You say so much without saying much at all and take the reader behind the poet's mask in this emotionally charged, stunningly crafted poem.
    love, Allie ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ (Report) Reply

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