Antiphon
by Lorri Neilsen Glenn
[ poetry - january 07 ]
Underneath stained glass, pews,
and ceremonies smooth
as the sonorous milk of the organ,
under the steady feet
of the Benedictines, the books:
1559. 1565. 1882. The Old
World in steamer trunks and church
habiliments, tumbled in dust
and optimism across candescent
miles of grass and faith: God
help us all. Bones of the ancestors tilt
the shelves, a mute choir offering
response to cupped hands above. Tucked
into a cover, a misspelled plea
from the priest from Shaunavon, a century
gone: I am loosing gradually. Remember me.
Beyond the elms, under the crescent
scar holding the secret of time, three deer
draw light from the field along the east,
and across the tracks, a coyote
strips the shriek from the throat
of a fledgling hawk.
