Mercy Wears a Red Dress. David CraigЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Mercy Wears a Red Dress

      Copyright © 2016 David Craig. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf and Stock Publishers, 199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3, Eugene, OR 97401.

      Resource Publications

      An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers

      199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3

      Eugene, OR 97401

      www.wipfandstock.com

      paperback isbn: 978-1-5326-0803-2

      hardcover isbn: 978-1-5326-0805-6

      ebook isbn: 978-1-5326-0804-9

      Manufactured in the U.S.A. December 6, 2016

      We did say a rosary in the car—

      that was something, though it was hard to hear

      all the voices. Today I’ll go to Confession,

      can’t say which of my lambs will follow.

      “Onward Christian Soldiers” we are not,

      except for Mrs. Polite, as mom calls herself

      in one of Jude’s programs.

      And in truth, she has grown, by leaps

      and bounds, while the rest of us,

      I’m afraid, are more hopper types—

      about the back yard, in the basement,

      all over the furniture; hopping

      and nibbling, nibbling.

      We are still everything we aren’t.

      There’s no brightening it:

      the flag we will wave when Jesus comes back

      will be a beat one. We’ll probably

      have to tie one of the ends in a knot

      to the staff; though our waving, we hope,

      won’t be abashed, or too much

      of an embarrassment for our neighbors.

      Still, today is a new day, and there is

      the Confession thing. Life does get better,

      like that horrible PRINCE OF EGYPT song:

      “If you believe”—though I don’t think

      creatively seeing makes anything happen.

      Like the rest of our lives, that’s too shallow,

      shoddy to do much good.

      This is the Valley of the Lord, east end.

      The part near the river, behind the tracks.

      We can clean up, comb our hair,

      but there’s no hiding who we are.

      We are the blessed.

      Advent is kind of trumped

      by the Christmas tree, though no child

      rushes to help me spread its artificial wings!

      Our Down’s guy, however, does note

      repeatedly that he’s on the “nice” list.

      At twenty-one, he gets his mall picture taken

      with me and Santa.

      My ADHD daughter, on the other hand,

      who does not suffer fools, or her dad, easily,

      has art for anything small, while our eldest,

      an Aspy, offers only jagged glimpses of his—

      bold pen and ink outlines. They are gift,

      part of that humble crowd which will lift its face

      skyward soon enough, waiting for reindeer,

      or something very like that.

      I wait for a publisher. My wife, who knows

      what she waits for? Maybe better hands

      at the piano, though she is already quite good.

      Maybe a husband who behaves as he ought.

      And the kids? For another world, no doubt,

      one to their specs. The trees wait for snow

      this time of year, the grass for frost. Snow

      is the stuff of hope because it means Christmas,

      days off; it means sledding and eggnog,

      all the family—a tree to light in the evenings!

      It’s like when we used to have summer sleep-outs

      in our back yard tent, listen

      to THE LORD OF THE RINGS.

      Nothing could’ve been cooler.

      It’s good to still have them here, despite

      the edges. They are, thankfully, who they are

      and where they have been.

      We will try again this evening, my wife and I—

      to make this their home.

      To Our Lady

      Thanks for not pitching my garbage,

      for not letting it seek its level

      among the banana peels, Monster drink cans,

      half of New York City.

      Thank you for over-looking my failings—

      which pilgrimage like prayerful

      maggots up the insides of summer trash cans,

      across the lids: they slowly herd themselves,

      turning, tiny mouths lifted in song—

      they cannot see! But that does not stop them

      as they make their way toward a new Jerusalem.

      Thank you for smiling through your statue’s paint

      when I come to visit you in Adoration—

      for liking me more than the world does.

      You are home to me, not this artfully

      messy office, 25-year consolation pen set;

      not my widescreen TV at home; not even

      football. I could cross my legs in prayer

      like a yogi if I want. It would not matter.

      You would pull the cover up under my chin

      at night, sing me a song.

      Let the world go on as it does; I will dance

      around my older children, make strange noises

      to amuse them. They may not understand,

      but will be gathered in.

      Thank you for today. Good things might

      very well happen! A stranger could knock

      on my door. A check could arrive,

      students line the halls with lifted