Email Poem

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Poem


The space is smaller 
than what was measured by memory,
the stained glass windows much less 
vibrant compared to what glowed 
brightly in the light of back then.
The pews have been worn down 
to bare wood by sliding bums 
and where arms have rested 
or fidgeted in prayer. I genuflect, 
prompted by some remnant of habit, 
out of a sense of respect, 
then take a seat.

Peeling paint sheets the walls 
not in wear, but in neglect. In places
an amber sheen coats where candle
smoke has left a nicotine like stain 
after decades of petitions.
I wonder how many were fulfilled.
The brass candle rack has a two
stubs that sit like the last
remaining teeth in empty gums.

The white marble altar that once 
seemed to soar to a height scraping 
the very hem of heaven now could be
scaled by a modest ladder. 
Six years old,
I stood before it in terror. Hidden away
within its chambers behind golden doors
there was a God who could send me 
to hell. I had nowhere to hide.

Surely, no God would want 
to be here now in such a place.
Everything in this building speaks 
of an absence, a sad vacancy 
that was once filled with a weighted 
presence whether real or imagined.
There are no flowers to sweeten the air
or whispered prayers 
from a visiting soul to sanctify the quiet.

And yet there are relics here,
echoes that bypass the ear, 
shadows that seem to reach up 
out of the silence like extended hands 
pulling at my mind. I am not sure 
whether it is the clutch
of the drowning wanting to be saved
or the other way around.

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