My Father’s God

is a silent one. Better disguised than the praying mantis and not once recanted. A flame
flickered shadow, broken-winged sparrow in my living room, whom I’ve witnessed tend
to their nest in the soffit. The far fields taught him to sharpen his knives and line sights
with the earnestness of an orison. Casting lines… There are no invocations in this solitary
liturgy. Just the zephyr and its urging, the gentle submerging of his weights in the lake
that spins as I follow, hook in thumb. A talentless acolyte, I never learned to recognize
the rain’s drums, the sun’s taste in our plums. Fruits of labor. My teeth sink into crumbs
before I recast, looking over the stained glass of his cathedral, wondering which chants
are being sung. I listen. Occasionally, I feel a thrum. A tug. Another bite. Swallow,
will you sing me your song? I only need enough to hum.

Jon Provens is an Argentine-American writer and educator currently based in Southern California. He has recent or forthcoming work in Trampoline.