By Cassidy Irwin
When we met, she gave me a little coin, dazzling in old Oklahoma dust, and made me promise that one day I would let her use my legs.
She measures her
paralysis in miles
of raven prints along white sands—she knows how far
north Gilead lies from the banks of the Jordan.
And when the gray upon her brow becomes my own, I’ll offer up a little litany— some small prayer for her sleep among the blessed.
Cassidy Irwin is a recent graduate from the Saint Constantine College. She plans to pursue a career in the field of law. She is a lover of reading, writing, and her giant dog, Buttercup. Her work has been previously published in The Pointed Circle.
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