Poem by Chad Parenteau

Photo by Su Red



Hail
(For my Mother)

Saturday,
Sunday masses
are easily skipped.

Praying
becomes much
easier to forget

when
even the
dying know more

than
whoever now
receives our prayers.

Sleeping,
she clenches
each rosary bead,

each
one equaling
a family member,

as
if it's
her hand alone,

her
nighttime grip,
keeping us together.