Praying in Bedlam

David Johnson
| poetry


Christopher Smart

knelt on these floors.

He praised winter,

he wrote Geoffrey

on the walls. He shouted


I’m barefoot.

I lost my rosary.


Praying in Bedlam

used to be easy for the dead.


He stood. The asylum

filled with sparrows.


He crossed himself

and reached out an arm.

David Johnson was born in New England and lives in the Deep South. His poems have appeared in several publications, including Still, Stirring, and The Bitter Oleander. He is currently a PhD candidate in creative writing at the Center for Writers at the University of Southern Mississippi.

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