Today's poem is by David B. Prather

Where There is Forgiveness
       

I suppose because it's Sunday
        and the air is quiet with penitence,
I think of my spotty history
        with church. My lover believes

in God, all the rigmarole of kneeling,
        praying, striving for Heaven.
I've never been one for unquestioned faith,
        what with a preacher who tells me

I am damned, and me in a pew
        with my hands clasped. The sun smears
stained-glass colors upon my hand,
        down my leg. But this is all

scientific, fusion, photon,
        transpiration. Transubstantiation,
my lover tells me, is a miracle,
        the Light of the Lord taken

into the body where the soul
        stays out of sight. The deepest pit
of the ocean seems a great place
        to hide, and must be the origin

of all those washed-up, unidentified
        creatures, those globsters, masses of flesh
carried on the foaming sea, moved
        by waves rearranging the shore.

They are mysterious, these cryptids,
        revealed only in death. It's natural,
isn't it, to wonder what else might be
        hidden? Sunlight cannot penetrate

the fathoms where beasts and beings
        make themselves luminous.
If they wandered through our homes,
        drifted in and out of doors,

we would call them spirits. Some might
        consider them angels. I am not
one of them, neither prophet nor apparition.
        If I've learned anything from Dante,

I know that who we love can find us.
        I've heard expiation is more
than making amends. I've heard
        you have to mean it.

Copyright © 2025 David B. Prather All rights reserved
from Bending Light with Bare Hands
Fernwood Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission