and turned out the lights,
I heard my mother pray
with all the others.
The room stank
like stables. Foul air
burned my nostrils.
Soon, moans replaced
the prayers. I wondered
about the promised water.
When the valves creaked
open, I felt no water,
only something invisible
on my skin. We were naked
as the truth that could not be
hidden any longer.
My mother squeezed me
to her bosom—I never liked
the smell of almonds.
The last thing I heard was
the sweet sound of violins,
the trumpeting of angels.
John C. Mannone has works in Artemis, The Southern Poetry Anthology (NC), Still: The Journal, Town Creek Poetry, Negative Capability, Tupelo Press, The Baltimore Review, The Pedestal, and others. Author of two poetry collections—the dark literary Apocalypse (Alban Lake Publishing) and the forthcoming 2013 Mary Ballard Poetry Chapbook Prize quarter-finalist on disability poetry, Disabled Monsters (The Linnet’s Wing’s Press)—he’s the poetry editor for Silver Blade and for Abyss & Apex. His work has been nominated three times for the Pushcart Prize in poetry. He is a professor of physics in east Tennessee. Visit The Art of Poetry: jcmannone.wordpress.com.
A Quiet Courage 