Scripture: Hour by José Angel Araguz
The day my father died is now the hour
surging without bells after the storm.
Hour smeared across the butcher’s apron.
Hour licked from the bone in a dog’s mouth.
Hour ground to a measly crescent
along a small boy’s thumbnail
as he practices writing out the alphabet.
Pencil hiss hour.
Hour of crinkled paper.
Hour whenever I cross myself
out of habit or out of fear
when between the trees
and roofs and clouding sky
my eyes adjust,
and make out a dark moving
canopy of flies.