Hymned by Megan Huwa

We will sing and weep no more,

are the final lines of worship, when pain

inches up my spine like a caterpillar

with serrated blades striating its back.

It is no monarch inching out,

my eyes awash with tears so dense

I only feel the hand grab mine,

then my husband’s arm lead me out.

Outside, the dry heat rushes

to my crackling chrysalis,

and the green wild parrots

with blazoned red heads

squawk a wild cacophony above us.

In the car, you whisper,

you're safe. Then a

knock-knock hits my window,

and I flinch at the presence

of someone else watching my caving.

It is that first hand knocking,

her tears a whisper as I open the door.

Do words matter? As a poet,

I say yes. But a hug,

a muted refrain,

is worship.

Megan Huwa is a poet and writer in southern California. A rare health condition keeps her and her husband from living near her family’s five-generation farm in Colorado, so her writing reaches for home—both temporal and eternal. A classically-trained pianist, she melds in her writing aurality, rural life, and empathy through the varied voices and lives of those dear and those she observes. Her work has been published in the Clayjar Review, Vita Poetica, Solum Literary Press, Calla Press, Ekstasis, San Antonio Review, The Midwest Quarterly, LETTERS Journal, and elsewhere, and featured on The Habit Podcast and Vita Poetica Podcast. Find her at meganhuwa.com.