Read about Marc Harshman here.
These are not lucky charms. These
are bits of bone and sinew. Home
from the war, he pressed them into my hand.
I said, "thanks," and he walked away. Far
away he had been. Steep valleys,
hot mountains of war, highs
and the enemy shy. "See,"
he once said on leave, "there
won't be much left of me." I know
that now, holding his hand in mine,
charms are not enough. Prayer
after another. Repeat after each, "Lord,
have mercy, Lord, Lord . . . ."
Names have memories. I wear his now.
Pray them as if he hears.
(Forthcoming in the "Anglican Theological Review")
There may be a million stars
But there is only one sky.
There may be fifty thousand bees
But there is only one hive.