Jerusalem Slim
By Michael Topa
I did not know it was Joy
And her fingers
Blessing me from words
Trapped in stone
Now in Gethsemane
You who could not wait
One hour sleep like salt
Scattered on the ground
But even now I forget
Where the difference falls
Some say Elijah
Some say John
But Joy you say nothing
And take me on
*This is what my father called Christ, alone
and muttering to himself, while nursing his
Four Roses whiskey at the kitchen table.
Originally published in America: The Jesuit Review, June 26, 2017, as one of three runners-up for the Foley Poetry Prize
Source: https://www.americamagazine.org/
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