FAMILY ROSARY
Peter Cuasay
When years passed in memorized lines of prayer,
Family was kept in a can of beads
For counting out the lengths of living
Into numbers of Hail Mary's, to thee do we cry,
Glory Be to the dreams rubbed in sandalwood and olive,
Caught in the rosewood and pine carved hands that
Smell of leathered novenas and bookmarker saints
Left in pages of old houses and broken crayons.
For back then our children were already wise,
Knowing by rote that days were only
Joyful, Sorrowful, or Glorious,
Fingering strings of nights on nights knelt down in recitation
Of black beads burnt in blessings of Jerusalem,
Or the blue eggs laid in chandeliers of jewel plastic and antique silver,
Their meditations have tied and untied our sleep
With bits of thread, silent heart-knotted psalms no words recall,
But ruggedly their restrung beading into rosary
Comes back whole as a martyr's gap-toothed smile,
Baptized by a leaky red pen to stain the children
With the blood of Christ, God of rain and rivers,
Wash us 'til tomorrows ripen in fresh petal family tree,
When the rosary can runneth over and the Mysteries hourly mingle,
Let us learn out through lengths of living
How to mourn, to dare, to pray constantly blurring beads
To make a hand rubbed halo for our dead calling,
This is God's rosary now, take its turning stars,
Its words heard passing beyond the past home's long last-lit horizons,
And flow wondering to the sea-swelled circle of life
Arising like song, like tears in the eyes of grandchildren
Whose first prayers will always have been
Too beautiful to be remembered.
