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Good Friday

Anya Silver

This day, the faithful will not speak, in prayer with Christ.
Silent, I rest. It’s been years since I’ve seen the wooden body
lifted from the cross, the altar draped in black and stripped
of blooms. Still, I long for intercession, for that God
most merciful, long-suffering, and of great goodness.
In a dream, a faceless angel commanded, Obey the law.
I argued, and he paused, amended, Obey the spirit of the law.
Sitting here, I imagine my prayers burning in the sweet smoke
of beeswax. I bow towards the I.V. that empties drop by drop.
Remember me, Oh Lord, in thy kingdom. The nurses murmur, rain.
Before the white curtains, let a priest read my name.

 
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