March 2020
I'm a retired English Professor spending my time writing, taking the occasional photograph, trying to follow the Dharma.
For more about me and my musings: http://www.michaelminassian.com
Author's Note Next month (April 2020) marks the 105th observation of the Armenian Genocide, planned and carried out by the Turkish Government, a historical fact still officially denied by Turkey. This poem originally appeared in The Evansville Review in 2017.
Author's Note Next month (April 2020) marks the 105th observation of the Armenian Genocide, planned and carried out by the Turkish Government, a historical fact still officially denied by Turkey. This poem originally appeared in The Evansville Review in 2017.
The Icons
In our house, my mother
wouldn’t explain why
my grandmother never prayed.
Where was God in 1915?
she asked, then shook her head,
each night looking
at the single photograph
she kept on the night stand
next to her bed,
of her mother and sister
a few weeks before
history exploded
like a sleeping grenade,
and her brother
was burnt to death
inside a church.
Along with the priest
and all the icons,
my grandmother said,
dumping the coffee grinds
into the backyard
where nothing ever grew,
and I kept my own search
for God and saints
in the blank brown soil,
home to worms
and hard round stones.
©2020 Michael Minassian
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