Cecil Sayre

Surface

Church elders
lifted my grandfather,
grey as death,
from a metal folding chair,
cradled him in their arms,
lowered him into a pool,
then raised him into the air,
wet but wingless.

I could imagine
shutting my eyes to the cold water,
hands gathered along my back
lowering me,
then being raised past the circle
of blurred faces,
being raised even higher,
could imagine being transformed
into an angel.

Weeks later
standing on my tiptoes,
I eyed my grandfather
surrounded by pillows,
not rising,
and tried to believe
in something more
than the stillness
of his face.

*

Cecil Sayre‘s poems have appeared in Two Thirds North, Naugatuck River Review, Main Street Rag, and Rattle, among many other journals. He has been nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize. His home is filled with cats.