by Ronnie Sirmans

Books can be bitter
to the tongue. Pulp
and ink will dissolve,
leaving an aftertaste
maybe salty like similes 
or sour with metaphors.

But oh, this book:  
These so thin pages, 
arranged like layers
of phyllo yet without
honey to bind them,
hold such sacrifices
and miracles, a whet
so savory, so sweet. 

Reading aloud:
Your teeth and lips 
clash with tongue
when pronouncing
Father and thy faith.
Saying oh before it all
teases a brief escape,
but the tongue bends
to fricatives and vowels
at work in our mouths.

Reading silently:
Like some prayers,
these pages turn,
intimate, we know
God always hears 
even in giving rest
to our tired tongues.

Ronnie Sirmans is an Atlanta print newspaper digital editor whose poetry has appeared in Fathom, Sojourners, Ekstasis, Reformed Journal, America, Heart of Flesh, and elsewhere.

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