You’re in My Thoughts and Prayers
I want her to know how sorry I am for her loss
but can think of nothing to say except for those words
that have become so empty, so cliche.
How do I convey that after her heart cracks
and develops veins that spread,
and she falls through into the deep,
feels the sting of grief,
I want her to find her shore, nothing more,
just a soft spot she can sink into
so she can weep, or be silent
till she can stumble into something
that feels like his arms.
A Holy Thursday
As I was on my knees praying with my head bowed,
I discovered my shirt was on backwards.
Then the service began, and the lights flickered on and off,
and there was a delay as they fussed with the switches.
The only way to remedy this was to leave them on dim.
As if on cue, the sun came through the stained glass,
piercing the dark.
There were more people in the choir than sitting in the pews
which made for an intimate mix
and brought attention to my singing off tune.
I was distracted by a humming noise like a motor
and I wondered if it was connected to the problem with the lights
and I couldn’t let it go.
During the petitions I begged for transformation,
and I said my mother’s name out loud
as the priest prayed for the dead. Normally I remain mute.
I panicked when I read ahead about washing of the feet,
but a calm took over as I took off my socks and shoes
and proceeded forwards in bare feet,
my toes painted a shocking pink.
We took turns pouring water from the pitcher,
washing then drying each other's feet with gentleness.
And at the end of it all, the altar was stripped bare
along with any more notion for things to be perfect.
I have no words to attach to all this grittiness,
other than to tell you something holy was right there in our midst.
This One Life
In this season when I find myself tilted
farthest from the sun with shadows long
and everything fleeting,
I’m compelled to live moments.
I want no could-have-beens as my final breaths.
I want them to be embodied,
coursing with all the sacred spaces
and everyday places
like the wide-open blue
perched on the skirts of the wind,
like the dandelion gone to seed,
those roses a bit wilted but blushed
with just a hint of pink to soften the harshness,
brave to be so tender when all the world is loud,
like those sparrows rising as one blanket shaken,
and that skein of geese reconnecting
as one long thread.
In a nest of goose down I dream
of lacey shadows caressing blue snow,
while frost etches promises of better tomorrows
on the outside of every pane.
Total Eclipse
If only
a body would wedge itself between me
and all that is too much
asserting that it’s ok for me too to go dark
for four minutes and twenty-nine seconds,
I could stop competing on the fringe,
trying to be all bright and sunny like you.
Restore
I want to hang a sign around my neck, Closed.
Not open for business, as usual.
The lights have been turned off for some time,
and there’s no small change in the till.
I’m running low on hope. I’m overstocked
on worry, loneliness, and they’re not selling
or should I say, you’re not buying
what I’ve taken the time to advertise.
You rarely pay a visit, give the avocado a squeeze,
or cup the peach to your nose.
You pass over the produce for your processed thoughts.
So what good are my goods?
I’ve resorted to granting backdoor access to strangers
who may know me better than you do.
I’m going to take inventory
of the everyday highs and lows,
calculate what everything is costing me,
reopen only when I’m fully restored.
Angela Hoffman - With her retirement from teaching and the pandemic coinciding, Angela Hoffman took to writing poetry. Her poetry has been widely published. Angela’s collections include Hold the Contraries, 2024, Olly Olly Oxen Free, 2023 (nominated for the Eric Hoffer Book Award), and Resurrection Lily, 2022 (Kelsay Books). She lives in Wisconsin.
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