by Jeniya Mard
He died for us, my father says
as he leads my brothers and I behind the Church
as the soft ground sends my heels sinking beneath me,
submerging the skin of my feet in mud
as the tears of the Lord cast down,
flooding the yard.
The rest of the parish strapped themselves into their cars,
warming their skin against the engines and drying their clothes
with flaps of their shirts and patting of skirts.
He died for us, my father repeats
as we walk around the outside of the church,
and they’re afraid to get a little dirty.
About the Poet
Jeniya Mard is a writer from Metro-Detroit and has a passion for writing strange, thought-provoking pieces of fiction and poetry. She loves to push the boundaries of what traditional writing looks and feels like. Her writing has appeared in Mistake House Magazine, Quirk Magazine, Sky Island Journal, and others.
Photo is in the Public Domain.