Quite a row of them sitting there
Evangelical Sundays. Church hats,the feathered grace of women,their men in undertaker suits,hardened into dutiful Sundays.It scarcely rained, the sunabominable. Taxis shuttled themto Kingdom Halls, the woodenheaven, like my grandmother.The light in the Word. Every daythe light on the Word lengthensand I write into the earth,my forked-tongue peninsula,indifferent to the Pentecostalturn in the day, when hymnsscrape brass from the collectionplate, rotating rust and fewcoins; at its rim, a gauze of holywater, grandmother’s sweat or tears.
Copyright © 2018 by Ishion Hutchinson
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission
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