The oboist plays the prelude.
Her slow, solemn, solo widens
a crack in my broken heart.
Beneath lies a lava lake of sadness.
It is sliced open with a sharp pain from
memories of thirty years in this Sanctuary:
My children's growth til graduation,
Wednesdays and Sundays in choir,
My first solo,
My in-laws' memorials,
My husband's memorial,
My children's baptisms,
My baptism.
In this Sanctuary,
I found my faith,
and my own belovedness.
Unable to sing,
I sit in a chair and listen.
My heart is splayed like a carcass for the grill.It's invisible ink- blood spurts on the church walls,
and runs down unseen pooling on the floor.
When I walk, it covers the bottom of my shoes.My foot slides, as I grasp for the swaying tether to my faith;
while the truth of my belovedness,
slips in and out of my searching hand.
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