Sunday Poem

Father Piña Said

the sky was full of angels.
I did hear wings, sometimes voices,
but no one had poured water over me,
no one had taught me the prayers.
If God were to choose one of us
to receive him as we knelt, colored light
mottling us like minnows,
it wouldn’t be me. Still,
the air was a room hallowed
by His breath, so when Father Piña
said, Let us bow our heads, I peeked.
Was it a joke or a miracle—the pigeon
fluttering in the rafters of the hot chapel,
mine the only eyes to see?

by Trish Crapo
from
Walk Through Paradise Backward
Slate Roof Publishing 2004

Like what you're reading? Don't keep it to yourself!
Share on Facebook
Facebook
Tweet about this on Twitter
Twitter
Share on Reddit
Reddit
Share on LinkedIn
Linkedin
Email this to someone
email