Faith resides here. I’m calling it that. A band of bagpipes marches, buried under April’s medallion glare. I never know why they’re playing or how well—that’s part of it. I’ll wait to eat in praise of them. Not one of them knows the one who went to buy rice and was hit in the face by nerve gas, seven years old, photographed in fetal position for the West to see. Even this is an assumption. Even my hunger is my choice, today. A child’s screaming in joy at the pipes. He must think the fanfare croons in adoration of him, mi tesoro, mi cielo, held as he is beneath the shade of a chestnut tree, babbling to the drums only half accurately, believing his notes to be true. Faith’s a dissonance, a forgetfulness.
Justin Wymer is a writer and educator from West Virginia. His first poetry collection, Deed (Elixir) won the Antivenom Poetry Award. He lives and teaches in Denver. www.justinwymer.com
