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I realized in a whisper that
I was north of God
By a question of leagues.

Or it was east,
Or south, or unending west.
No, I whisper back, it is north,

Truly north, as true as
A blind painter.
I begin to beat back

The brush of the trail, and
The sky hangs overhead like
The feet of martyrs,

Those heavens gaping like
A trench behind me—
Behind us, all the others also

Plunging south to return
God’s parry. We hope to see
In the seeping mists, but

We know that
Our handmade yokes weigh down
Our lowered heads like altar boys.

We trusted that
We are rippling in unseen waters, and
We wander down Heaven’s compass.

Photo by Ruben Christen on Unsplash

Kevin LaTorre

Kevin LaTorre is a poet and writer living with his family in North Carolina. His work has appeared in The BlotterEcho Literary MagazineWalter MagazineAd Fontes, and the Front Porch Republic. He writes about poetry, Christianity, and literature at