Sunday, April 17, 2011


She painted tears instead of stars,
the earth shifting from plate to plate
like a child skipping lily pads on the run
from a ghoul.

I didn’t know her then.  She was only words and stories,
strips of torn clothing
hanging like limp jerky,
out of reach from every leaping wolf
but one.

Now someone prays and another suggests an offering.
The proudest
drop coins inside a velvet pouch
just to hear the clatter.
I turn my sight to a high sheet of mosaic glass--
Mary with a babe, tucked and swaddled.
Light bleeds through a pane
like purple spears.
I’d look away,
I’d raise a voice in hymn,
but I know
how ashamed you must be
to learn
that we’ve stopped searching.

--Len Kuntz is a writer from Washington State.  His work appears widely in print and online at such places as Moon Milk Review, Fix It Broken, Pure Slush and also at

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