The Wall Game

Matthew, Mark, Luke and John
went to bed with nothing on
and after the time
we recalled that catching rhyme,
the mute, papyral light
had inked our bodies and our memory
like rival gospels.

Though we were no
older than confetti,
I already believe we rode
to our wedding in a tan car.

You are even prepared to swear
my first gift was lifting
you across the threshold,
the rain palsying the skylight.

Already we are taut as the hand
above Isaac, prepared to strike
down on all false readings.

Yet, like all true believers,
I know to put more truth in a salt pinch
of sand that carries on our shoes
and shakes loose a year from now.

It shows our wedding day is a village
that we choose to pass through.
We are still two children throwing
against a wall, who when we pass,
stop our rhyme and stare.

This poem was written/submitted by Patrick Daniel Toland.