I hardly recall any soul I served thirty-five years ago
but, Cynthia, your shoulders and dogma - I never forgot.
Of course I d minor double grieved your fresh tombstone
as I dogwalked by then
pierced your obit to wring my regret that you never remarried
but your bobbed brown bangs greyed into a slim well shriven church lady
convinced enough of your predestination to have inscribed Romans 8:28 on your stone.
Your neurosis once worried for the arms of a Pagan knight
but I never asked you to break bread and sip wine
nor did you ask me to ask.
You massaged, sternly I am sure, metal inventory for your Christian father who
never valued the edge I saw that only need have been set
by the stroke of a steel.
Our predestiny? – perhaps your principles sensed my principles' depth as well,
I would have lied about anything to bind us on earth
save my devotion to the Goddess.
Tyson West has published speculative fiction and poetry in free verse, form verse and haiku distilled from his mystical relationship with noxious weeds and magpies in Eastern Washington. He has no plans to quit his day job in real estate. His poetry collection "Home- Canned Forbidden Fruit" is available from Gribble Press.