They sit atop the dresser
on the veil that she used
to cover her head with on Sundays
still and curled
like a cat napping on a carpet
she's been gone twelve years now
but I can no longer bring myself to move them
in fact, I only held them in my hands
once
and that was after her first birthday had passed
after she had past
passed from past
its quaintness fails
to move me
black as habit
oily from the daily supplication
her finger strembling like her eyelid strembling like her lip strembling
to pray for those less fortunate than her
she would kneel and clutch the beads
as if they were the lifeline
to eternity
but to eternity she's gone
and only the beads remain.
2007-09-21
17:56:50
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6 answers
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asked by
Anonymous
in
Arts & Humanities
➔ Poetry