When I was looking for a poem to share today, this one sort of jumped out at me. I think I've shared it before, a long time ago. But, for some reason, I feel the pull to share it again.
Saint Marty wishes all his disciples love this sunny Upper Peninsula morning.
A Penny Saved
by: Martin Achatz
My daughter hands me the penny,
Says, “Put it in your pocket,”
Pressing it into my fingers.
It’s hot, feels like it’s sweating.
Lincoln looks newly elected,
Before Chancelorsville and Shiloh,
Second Manassas and Antietam.
I put it in my pocket, with keys,
A rosary, black-beaded and broken,
Christ’s arm snapped, dangling
From the branch of the crucifix
Like a maple leaf in autumn.
She won’t ask for the penny back,
Trusts me to keep it precious and shiny,
The way she trusts me at night
When I lie beside her in bed,
My hand on her chest, feeling her
Rabbit heart against my fingertips.
Before she was born, in the swell
Of my wife’s belly, those beats sounded
Like gunshots underwater, the steady
Explosion of a cannon miles distant.
When Lincoln’s son Willie died of typhoid,
Lincoln held his shell hand,
Whispered over and over, “My poor boy,”
As if calling Willie back, begging
Willie’s still heart to return to battle.
Holding the broken and bloody Christ
In her arms, Mary, I’m sure,
Wanted to press her lips to His,
Breathe life into His mouth,
Hold His hand and feel His fingers
Tap like fat drops of rain
On the continent of her palm.
I want to give my daughter’s penny
To Mary, point to the alphabetical halo
Above Lincoln’s head, to the words
“In God We Trust,” remind
Her of those moments with her child,
When He slept beside her
In the dark, trusting her arms
Like a sparrow trusts the sky.
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