Issue 12 | Winter 2013

Blood Prayer

Vyslobods nas, Pan, I whisper
to myself as the ambulance screams
past the house, Slovak words
my grandfather spoke
whenever a siren or a funeral
lifted his head from his soup
or the ground he was planting,
words that rise in me now,
sitting in darkness,
watching the passed houses glow
for a moment in red.

Filed under: Poetry