And therefore, all the more believable,
That God sent a tiny angel with a chinstrap made of feathered jewels,
All night, God peers from his gilded case,
nothing to do but wait for morning
that primal howl of grief, guilt,
anger, fear at the telegram:
“Sylvia died today.”
a golden halo around her black
braids, and telepaths faith, faith,
faith.
I tell my familiars
everything but need to scream my head off
in a Bible cocoon
And when the trembling shook the entire house
it woke me into shock
as if you are a child lost
on the water in a boat cast off from its lines
I am grateful for all the poets who submitted their work for the contest. Every year we get poems from all over the United States, and even across the world, about any number of topics.
In mid-century America, nuns and sisters were writing poems, and publishing them in the nation’s finest publications.
