by Kristin Cianfichi

Back bent against the wind.
Winter sun upon the young man’s neck.
He glimpses the church’s pointed spires.
A trinity of crosses calls  out to wretched humanity.
He no longer believes.

A little boy and a woman in a pencil skirt, tailored jacket.
No father but never mind.
Mother has always been enough.
Her chestnut hair and perfumed neck.
Nails painted an opaque pink.
Life was Beautiful.

It was cold the day she left

Now he’s empty. Aged out. Unhoused.
Wretched.
Hemmed in by the hard, unfeeling buildings surrounding him.
He has no faith in their timelessness.

He peers again at the river,
Roiling and black.
He longs to find peace in that wet darkness.
Those steeples fall in
Elongated shadows,
Thrown by the day’s last rays.
A green sprig struggles toward spring.

He stands. Still. Silent.
Hands in pockets, and then
He turns his back, walks up the hill, down the street.
Enters a small café.

This is faith.