Mollie

Her twisted body sentenced her
to wheelchair and bed
but could not exile delight.

My visits, few enough, it’s true,
were welcomed as if she really
did remember who I was.

What I learned about her was
sketchy, episodic, told
in bursts like a four-year-old.

Talking cost her effort, her
voice raspy, her face red.
She preferred talking to listening.

It was her chance to shine,
to be someone of consequence.
I learned to listen.

She guided me into
and through the fifty years of
her contracted world.

I found, to my surprise,
a place absent of complaint
or fear or sulk or rage.

And when, about to go, I’d
say, each time, would you like
a prayer? Her face lit up.

I’d say a line, “Our Father
who art . . .” and
wait to hear her echo.

Then, half-way through,
remembering, she’d race ahead
to “trespass against us.”

I wondered what she knew of
trespass, hers or others, what
need she had of forgiveness.

And then we came to what
I still remember most.
Her eyes squeezed shut,

her fervency fervent,
she prayed “. . . and lead
us into temptation. Amen.”

And I wonder if, maybe,
her version makes
as much sense as the original.

—Ken Gibble, Greencastle, Pennsylvania, is a retired Church of the Brethren pastor. These days, instead of writing sermons, he writes poetry (mostly) and other stuff.

Eastern Towhee

The book says they are common
in this part of the world.
But I’ve been living
in this part of the world
for more than six decades
and yesterday was the first time I saw one.
Or maybe not.
Maybe you have to be looking,
maybe you have to be hoping,
to see one.

Some say that only
those who loved him
were able to see Christ risen.
Maybe he too is common
in this part of the world.

—Ken Gibble

Stalker

We’re still not sure how she
got out, but I picked up her paw
prints easily enough in the freshly
fallen snow. No surprises. She’d

headed next door, went around the back
to the trash cans, checked out
each washline pole, then proceeded
down the street, stopping at every

house to sniff at the usual places.
I caught up with her at
the Wilson’s garage door behind
which their black Lab, Casey,

was raising a fuss. Some suppose
God is Holy Tracker, pursuing
us down the days, following
the twisted trail of our

follies with relentless purpose.
I’m not so sure. But every
now and then I do feel followed.
I turn around and look.

—Ken Gibble

Jake

He told me once he tore a ligament
playing high school football. His
limp is only slight most times,
but today the weather’s cold, damp.
He looks and sounds old. I see

he’s come to talk, a gentle
giant, six foot five, father of five
boys who’ve driven more
than one Sunday school teacher
into reluctant retirement. He

loves them, loves their mother
who’s sick now, very sick. How’s
Rose? I say to get the conversation
underway. I know that’s why he’s
here. She’s bad, he says, then

sits and twists his hands. I
try again: how are the boys handling
this? He shrugs. We sit in silence.
Minutes pass.  He lifts his head.
He’s furious, his voice a roar.

If she’s gonna die anyway . . .
He stops, begins again . . . I wish
to God she’d just get on
with it. He staggers to his feet,
lurches to the door and through it,

gimps his way to the parking lot.
I murmur a blessing.
Go, Godwrestler, I say
as he drives away.

—Ken Gibble