Patricia Anne Fonseca Poet Prose Poetry

The Keeper of the Stone

He kept the commandments in his coat pocket like smooth, cold stones—ready to throw, but never to build. He could recite the names of the angels but couldn't see the person shivering at his doorstep. To him, the pews were a fortress, and the incense was a smoke screen to hide the rot in his own floorboards.

He spoke of a mansion in the sky but begrudged his neighbor a patch of grass. On Sunday mornings, his voice was the loudest in the choir, a heavy, golden bell ringing out over the congregation. He washed his hands until they were pale and clean, proud that they had never been dirtied by another person’s grief.

But grace isn't a thing you can lock in a box.

By afternoon, his mouth turned back into a knife. He could spot a speck of ash on a sinner's sleeve from a mile away, entirely blind to the fire burning down his own house. He fasted to show the world his hunger, but his soul was bloated on its own pride. He loved the idea of a bruised savior, but despised the people who actually bled.

In the old books, it is written that the first shall be last. But he doesn't read the footnotes. He only looks at the cover, where his own name is written in gold leaf. His faith was a beautifully painted door that led straight into a brick wall.

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