organ


the church basement smells like old fabric and new
paint, and people’s projects coming to an end in the time-worn
circle of childhood.
the carpet is a dark brown, 
or a blue, and my feet move more softly over it than seems possible.
there is a thin film of light coming
under a door to my left, around a partition—rounding it feels
like a secret.

the bathroom is pristinely white
and I can hear the groaning of that deep-throated, 
many-mouthed beast,
above me.
I have found the secret berth below,
the hidden world where I am
forgotten as though I had never
been 

above with the others, the tens of listening ears,
their gazes roving over the 
arching ceiling, 
clapping when required, gazing at stained glass windows
overtop of where I stand,
fog steaming up the mirror,
immaculate white smoke, 
as I look myself in the eyes.




after the funeral 


there were cracks in the night sky
through which I could see the blankness
of being unborn— 
shot through with psalms 
like the one I heard playing from my bed,
half-awake this morning.

my father was arranging flowers in
vases at the table,
white roses and red, 
and I went to get the rose I’d carried home
with me the night before.
it’s probably not going to make it, 
he said, but he cut the stem and
sunk it in with its brothers all the
same, where it nodded like a 
chastised child.
I want it back, so it can die a natural death
apart, I thought, and then,
I hope it survives.
I watched the straight lines of my
father’s back, the 
sun coming through the kitchen
windows, the cups scattered
across the counter, half-full and empty
and waiting.

everything was so quiet, and I listened 
for your soul.