Poetry of Issue #7        Page 27

Lapsed Not

Some of us believe.
We are not lost or fallen.

I still worship at the altar
of my childhood church,

mesmerized by stained-glass windows,
a white marble altar, reveries of my mother,

rosaries in hand, at a front pew during one
of our wars. Crucifixion takes many forms.

In Milan, I prayed at Santa Maria presso San Celso,
a church populated by old ladies and young families.

I learned to recite the “Our Father” in Italian.
I am not ashamed—edgy, restless, sinning poet that I am.

I long lost faith in mortals; I trust in a Being in the Heavens
who forgives me for trespasses I commit. Over and over and over again.

  Amy B. Barone