Fiction   Essays   Poetry  The Ten On Baseball Chapbooks In Memory






A. Michael McRandall




Unclaimed Epiphany


Itís not the heat,
or even the lack of
prayer from the
congregation—
you wouldnít expect
salvation
to follow you anyway–
itís more the hole
in your pocket,
and what must have
fallen through
while dancing with
the boy.

Habits
arenít so hard to shake,
now are they?

Itís losing them
within the melody—
and consequently
underneath the bed—
that causes such a stir.
So when your usher
trades his Chevy
for the Bishopís
less than fundamental ring,
and you reach
for the collection plate,
where half a dozen whispers
choke
in unison
on over-leavened Hail Maryís—

remember
how his hands
exacted miracles

and you
forgot
your name.



If Ever, Oh Ever

If Saturday had worn ruby slippers
Iíd have never had to hold your head
above the sink,
or kiss away the sweat—
but Dorothy took those shoes
when she left town.

Then rainbows hid in backseats
laughing softly—
as you wondered
if youíd ever get back home—
while from the trunk
a thousand answers
tapped your name in code,
but you were left without a question,
or a coat.

I had kept you from yourself
when the far side of the window
coyly beckoned,
but Iíd never thought
to bolt the door—

so when you drifted
to the sidewalk
on a solitary whisper,
I could only watch you
lie down
in the white heat of the sun—
turn off the music—
and slowly
die of cold.



©2005 by A. Michael McRandall


A. Michael McRandall is married, with two adult children, and no formal writing background. He decided to pick up the pen about two years ago, and has been pecking away ever since. His work has been published in Megaera, Carnelian, and Mastodon Dentist, and he's currently working on his first collection of poems.


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