How many in a field of wheat, and to whom do they belong? O death, O grave, Bright star, thou bleeding piece of earth, thou shouldst be living at this hour, world without synonym, amen. But I digress, turn away like Giotto’s contrapposto Christ, apostle of contrecoeur—nothing like the cardinal calling this morning, the third fifty-degree day at the end of December, to his cinnamon mate. The headline says, "Pope Calls Cardinals to Rome." But will they come? It is written above—superscript, sign, omission—a gentle tender insinuation that makes it very difficult to definitely decide to do without it. One does do without it, I do, I mostly always do, but I cannot deny that from time to time I feel myself having regrets and from time to time I put it in. This do in remembrance of me, your only wick to light. For where two or three are gathered in my name, like snow in April, lid on a coffin, ice on the lake, I’ll come between you and yours; I give you my word.
"Apostrophe" by Angie Estes from Chez Nous, Oberlin College Press, © 2005. Reprinted by permission of Oberlin College Press.