by Abraham dela Torre
It is an odd phenomenon to find
your phone spewing messages that mind
the homily you heard (and even read
before) at Mass repeating in your head.
What does it speak of, is the import better
understood when nothing will get lost
until the words have sunk, been written off
to memory? And, when recalled, a smile
shall lure it back to sing a soundless voice
of amity. Of promises unsaid
between the lines professing guarantee
the words are not just characters but oaths
of what an office holds if it were sworn.
For friendship is an ark, a covenant
between two sovereigns, two vows of trust
and confidence. It is a heart espoused
by fellow heart, it can’t renege, it must
epitomize the certain courtesy
of pacts. As strange as inspiration strikes
a poet’s block, this stroke defies the odds
and squeezes in, insistent, and persists
because, it later dawns, the mission went
according to no plan it was as plain
as breathing out or in a glad refrain.
That, almost like a twin, the other note
gave birth to an allegiance to the fact,
is testament to faith between, among,
the Triune One and man and other men.
