Poetry by Peter McCracken
I.
the steam turning to frost on the brick
in a hosanna i can’t understand
II.
a synagogue will always have a
skylight to remind you of G-d’s
presence. it will occasionally
be full of mourners for a 14
year old girl who died of brain
tumor complications but G-d’s harsh
light will shine through in the roughshod
embrace of the old testament
III.
severe white walls and a choir
of older members; an ancient pastor
wielding the cup that overfloweth
and fire of heaven in equal regard.
pretty hats on once-pretty women, their
feathers turned to fire from the april
sun slamming through the plain window
IV.
2000s revivalism in a large hall that once belonged to
friday night basketball and physical education, but
now a place of soulful salvation with no dress code and
a reverend in khakis. it is wednesday and a funeral
with no overhead light just shadows above us.
eulogies on suicide feel sick and the no-sun light
of streetlamps doesn’t shine through the stained
glass so when i leave i can smoke through the service
and try to forget why i’m there
