Fiction Friday: Micropoetry from the Book

The years fell away from my mother
when she was with the elders.
They gave her back something she’d never had,
or rather, the rest of us had diminished.

Our Sundays no longer belonged to Patrick—
to grieving the dead.
That first or last day of the week had become our Sabbath,
rejoicing in the one I thought of as The Undead.

As the 3 men entered in,
David at the head,
I couldn’t help but think of them
as the 3 Wise Men,
bearing glad tidings of great joy.

I looked at my true parents,
knowing I could either join them,
or be left behind.
It was as it had been once before—
just the 3 of us.

A child of God,
I’d be immersed in water,
baptized by fire,
& impregnated with holy air.
I would be upcycled earth dust.

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