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Back when my knuckles hadn’t yet emerged like islands from my baby fat, nor facts from dreams, and one-scoop ice-cream cones could serve to satiate the deepest longings that I could conceive of (my conception being so near and puberty so far away), they placed in my pink palm a cotton string. I clutched it with both hands as if to pray thanksgiving to the clown for that balloon, that floating jewel of redness half my size, that (once I took my eyes from it, resumed my place beside my mother,) just as I reached out to hold her hand, slipped from mine. Since then, I’ve vowed to hold to what’s divine. by Albert Cipriani |
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Bio:
Albert Cipriani, a former newspaper reporter, photojournalist, magazine editor, and English teacher now lives with his wife, Janice, and four goats on three acres in a Southern Californian canyon. He is a technical writer for the computer industry and an apologist for orthodox Catholic issues in Catholic journals such as The Angelus and The Remnant, on his Catholic website, and through his religious philosophy newsletter. His poetry has been published in The Acorn, New Improved Mushrooms, and The Remnant.
his web site his Religious Philosophy group |
© Copyright 2004 by Albert Cipriani
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