On the Verge of the Holy, Bonnie Stanard

Mark Terry, “The Way Hope Builds Her House,” 48 x 20 x 20, Stoneware





Never mind the life I lived
before becoming one with the Truth.
A corruption of passions
expanded into a cloth of testament

and so as never to forget
my regret and ever to remember
to pray for forgiveness
I turn my tension into a prodigal line
that returns again and again.

Subject to pallor, ulcers,
and above all, high blood pressure
I see my minutes and hours leak
through cracks in the kitchen floor.

I keep track of my time
lest it’s squandered on skin treason.
I pray for insights to save me
from the utter folly
of originating sin, something
I think I’m good at.

I realize I am dwindling
my immortality account
with faith in fleshly desires,
investments in false profits,
trading in devious securities,
and justifying fake faces.

Every taste of an apple pie
teeters on sweet and sour.

Bonnie Stanard

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