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Dust shrouds the peeling varnish on the old church pew as Noah
(first of his namesake, last of his namesake) thumbs an overripe
orange in his patchwork coat pocket. The preacher, made an obelisk
 by distance and light looms against the marble cross, stark
fragmented, like bullet holes through white fencing.

He speaks.

“Every Living Thing Has A Soul And Should Be Treated As Such.”

Noah knows not of this. He knows of the orange in his patchwork coat pocket
 and the preacher, made an obelisk by distance and li—  
His mother pulls him outside of himself, her firm hand guiding his awkward steps. 
Noah was to go fishing with his father this afternoon.

The riverbank slants downward, the red clay retreating from Noah’s newly
polished Church shoes. Silence is expanded upon by his Father, who kills 
the worm, contorted, tied, twisted, and fitfully impaled to be sacrificed (For Lunch).

Noah knows not of this. He knows of his mother, her firm hand guiding, 
the riverbank slanting downwa—

“Paw is it true these worms got souls?” / Yes, Son”
“Why’re we killin’ ‘em? / We’ve got to eat”
“Can’t we eat without killin’? / You want to eat a live fish?”
“Can we eat somethin’ else? / If we were richer”
“Won’t we go to hell for killin’? / Some killing has to happen”
“If we were rich, would we have to kill? / Probably not, Son”
“Do only the rich go to heaven?”

Noah’s father did not say this, but this is what he understood.
The rich build their heaven on earth out of precious metals 
And fleeting pride, but heaven can only be found
in death 

and in death, the worms you killed,
the fish you ate, the woman you love, 
the brother you fought, and the sun you worship 
will run
 to greet
you like
your child 
the morning
of your birthday.

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