hollow current
The minister does not raise his hands as the others do,
Stretched up and sleeved in spring blues and pastel pinks,
Young arms taut and tan and old ones pale and jiggly.
The minster clasps his hands in front of him, gaze somber,
Laid over a peculiar joy, not so alien on this day,
When congregants pin lilies to faux bloodied wood.
Liturgy does not become him.
I would take him for a Baptist.
The minister has a stare that lingers, lingers on me,
And I am for a nanosecond polar plunged into putrid fantasy,
Drawn and quartered under those eyes and it is my red on the lilies.
The minister watches my cheeks flush as I receive
Dark wine on a gluten-free crouton, the bite of alcohol,
The odor of it on an old man’s breath, a blessing to my seat.
The minster joins the band in a sway to their calming song,
And I shiver in inane paranoia, lengthening those shakes to the beat,
Wishing to linger over donuts later and be silent and free my fear.
frank beacon
stiff anchor
unreal moat