Altar Boy at the Grand Tetons
by Regis Louis Coustillac
When did I begin to dance past
the path of broken branches,
so satisfied with wandering lost
beneath an empty barrel of dying stars?
I look up to curse the moon
and see a single comet burn across the night.
It is a blessing on the forehead.
Ash Wednesday.
So I plant myself on a bed of moss,
and glaze my hands with dew and dirt.
A blessing on my forehead.
I begin to pray for rain.
Poet: Regis Louis Coustillac
Senior, College of Arts and Sciences
Mentor, Ohio
Illustrator: Zuzana KubiΕ‘ovΓ‘ β17
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