Poems
Ash Wednesday
after T. S. Eliot
I cannot repent for all of this. The river rising to bury the mountain, the newborn wailing unheard in the desert—I can’t atone for every bullet that has shattered glass or splintered a tiny desk marked with crayon. There are no words that can pick the barbs from the flesh of the stranger, salve the bruises of the soft-hearted. My confession is too small— it will not cover the whole wound. But then, this is nothing new. We have always knelt, hoping our mutterings might be valid, stunned each time our pale appeals inspire not just absolution, but exuberance: birdsong embroidering the dawn, honey- suckle and sun-lit earth, the steady glow of Orion.
Erika Takacs is an Episcopal priest, teacher, musician, and poet who currently lives in North Carolina. Her writing has been published in The Orchards Poetry Journal, Earth & Altar, Thimble Literary Magazine, and The Kakalak Anthology.