I remember times
when Truth was inscribed
in capitals, like the opening lines
of an illuminated manuscript
its compulsive fantasies
emblazoned in the tinted ink
by practiced hands
working the vellum
for salvation
or the embossed
Gothic font impressed
in the black leather cover
of my grandmother’s
Bible, its red edges
Worn to a thin pink
by licked fingers hungry
for the Word of God.
Truth was once
pressed hard into the
thick manila of my
father’s last newspapers,
raised in braille to
be read by blind hands
until it was engraved
forever in the stone
that marked his
return to the earth when
those same sad hands
gave up the light.
And now for me
truth comes like
the tingling chill
of grief
pecked out on a screen
and swished on the wind
to a distant friend.