by Dietrich Balsbaugh
I do not yet know
how it is I shall die
as some of my friends do.
Like the broken wine bottle
on an Easter Sunday
their death is particular,
and there is no theodicy
save for the hand that holds the hammer
and the hand that bleeds.
Like every shard of their life
lying scattered in the dust
there is no narrative, no time,
only broken pieces,
doubt,
and Christ.
Dietrich Balsbaugh is a writer living in South Bend, IN. His poems have appeared in Veritas Journal and Ekstasis Magazine. He spends his free time reading out loud to his family, taking walks with his wife, and birding along the river.
header image: “Barcelona Sunrise-Broken Bottle” by FeistyTortilla is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0.
