potato salad, image by Sina W, on Pixabay
Even Then
ah good friend
remember the weeping
when cheeks puckered to the touch
illusions that we would ever be saved
drifted through fingers
like harmless bumblebees
shining black sunlight
off their wings
remember the talking
step by step through
your suburban streets
speaking of Jesus sandals and
the women we were spending time with
the thought of being saved
never crossed our minds
happy as we were
in summer oblivion
now, these days,
salvation, old friend
is all I think about
in fact
I think about it
even when I’m not
I’ll ask anyone, anywhere
what it takes
*
Church Picnic
we were beneath broad-leafed trees
in stunning summer heat
nothing was going as planned
my daughter, eye rolls of boredom
my wife clearly waiting
for this meal to mercifully end
and me, vastly nervous
speaking with a sweating man
about church and sports and anything
yet still between bites
of questionable potato salad
strange echoes of peace pervade
nowhere else we have to be
just the slow rolling rhythm
of sabbath on a Sunday
what did you say your name was?
ah, and now I am somebody
to both you and myself
and the trees must be miserable
but we are cool so
this becomes the plan all along
to sit among these saints and keep
trying to pry the lid
off these rusty boxes that hold us
*
Revealed
when the winter moon hits
on my religion
may the cracks revealed
be relinquished
to the one and only God
showing His face
through the clumsy joy
we have built
______________________
Casey Mills writes poems early in the morning while his kids sleep and
the birds wake. He lives in Northern California next to a creek he enjoys
spending time with. His poetry has been published in Heart of Flesh,
Amethyst Review, Ekstasis, Solid Food Press, and elsewhere.
February 2025 issue
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