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I Kept My Mustard Seed in My Pocket

A poem

Published on:
March 11, 2019
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I sat cross-legged on the carpet
beside the couch where you laid
barely breathing,

lungs rattling, in fact,
near the end.

Something welled up in me to pray boldly—
to command you to get up, in the name—
but fear was louder,

because faith might fail
or its object defer.

Sometimes I still wonder
who really let you go.

John Hawbaker
John Hawbaker lives and writes in Chattanooga, Tenn. His work has appeared inThe Morning News,Bitter Southerner, andThe Curator. He co-writes Tributaries, a newsletter about heart and craft in great writing. You can connect with him on Twitter @jehawbaker.

Cover image  by Verne Ho

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