Washington & Tremont
by ryk mcintyre
[ poetry - may 09 ]
Here, darkness falls, hard as base notes brought low;
a hymn
for those who watch. There is a miracle of shame
amidst the flock,
and the False Gods on Film will not sweat blessing in
the direction
of row after penitent row of the anonymous. No one
talks
more than necessary, no one looks me in the eye
unless they want something. I walk carefully, who
knows
what I might step in. What stains the ground here is
prayer made wet;
the sleight-of-one-hand denying loneliness,
liquid-quick. Another
of the faithful lick their lips, lift their
eyes, flex
and pretend
to touch body parts big as "Oh yeah, Baby!". In the
afterglow
her eyes burn into you. Look around. Once this place
showed movies,
with stories, dialogue and movie stars. But times got
hard,
shadows fell; the need of lonely men
cried-out and
this church
was erected, promising, "You want company? I will give
you men
of solid cock; the kind of women that made Zeus
swan-dive;
All of them named with names as impossible to believe
in as light
coming into this place miraculously;
exchanging
invasive for erotic;
laying hands on shame, saying to the sinner "Stop
punishing yourself
...that's our job."
A man kneels in front of me in the position of prayer.
His mouth is full
and silent. I hold myself in the dark; swelling with
hope. My lips around
mantra, eyes tight on the image of a woman,
ten-foot-tall at least.
She is impressively athletic; improbably willing;
impossibly mine.
