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Words on a Sabbath Morning
Today I hear the words again
this morning as on every Sabbath
a disembodied voice reads them
words I know from knee-height
reminding of scratched desk tops
inkpots blinking in their wells
Words that echo from dusty crevices
my fingers tracing them like Braille
devout and deep yet they do not move me
the voice’s owner has long gone to dust
as has my father whose grave
abandoned in the old country
is a place I do not visit
Too many words have unfolded since then
shouting verses from belfries and minarets
each in its own inflexion
compelling, commanding, yet
I find no inspiration in them
My father’s bones lie in the old country
abandoned, unvisited
from time to time he phones
usually on a Sabbath morning
listen to the words he says
repeat them after me
I listen, then close the connection
wait for retribution to descend
© Johnmichael Simon
2015
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