A warm electric blanket

It’s not a warm electric

blanket, she said, wrapping

itself around us, a cocoon.

It’s not a blanket warmed

for our comfort and ease,

our protection and defense,

to keep the cold away. No,

she said, it is not that nor

any of those things

we think it is, we believe it is,

we so desperately demand it is.

Rather, she said,

it is the cross.

Photograph by Tilen Hrovatic via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.

The worst thing

What is the worst thing,

he asked, the worst thing

that could happen,

he asked, quietly. Pain,

he replied, the pain

of difficulty and unease,

the pain of hurt, loss,

abandonment, the pain

of deprivation, suffering,

the pain of torment and

confusion, pain, pain

to be avoided at all costs,

if not avoided then mitigated,

lessened, reduced

to nothingness. That is

the worst thing, he replied.

Do you not wish to live,

he asked.

Photograph by George Hodan via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.

I went to Smyrna

I went to Smyrna, my usual

sales trip, bringing with me

what I had to sell. I arrived

amid the cries, torches in the night,

soldiers dragging men, women

off, children taken, too, and some

too young left behind. What is

this, I asked my innkeeper, what is

this thing. Avoiding my eyes

he said, simply,

it’s faith. As he pushed the ledger

to me to make my mark,

his hand shook.

It’s faith, he said.

Only that.

Photograph by George Hodan via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.

It wasn't a knock

It wasn’t a knock

but a pounding, shaking

the door. He sat, the pages

open before him, hearing

the vibration from the door,

an axe hacking at an already

fallen tree. He knew the time

had been coming, arriving

in thunder. He first thought

to hide the small cross

around his neck, the cross

that was his noose. Instead,

he waited for the door

to give way.

He heard the first splinters.

Photograph by Teodoro S. Gruhl via Public Domain Pictures. Used with Permission.