Because sometimes I feel I am a punctuation mark

Apostrophe
Angie Estes

How many in a field
of wheat, and to whom
do they belong? O death, O
grave, Bright star, thou bleeding piece
of earth, thou shouldst be
living at this hour, world without
synonym, amen. But I
digress, turn away like Giotto’s
contrapposto Christ, apostle
of contrecoeur — nothing like the cardinal
calling this morning, the third
fifty-degree day at the end
of December, to his cinnamon
mate. The headline says, "Pope Calls
Cardinals to Rome." But will they
come? It is written above — superscript, sign,
omission — a gentle tender insinuation
that makes it very difficult to definitely
decide to do without it. One does
do without it, I
do, I mostly always do, but
I cannot deny that from time
to time I feel myself
having regrets and from time to
time I put it in. This do in remembrance
of me, your only wick
to light. For where two
or three are gathered in
my name, like snow in April, lid
on a coffin, ice on the lake, I’ll come
between you and yours; I give you
my word.