Do you have a home church?
How, then, should I answer?
The truth misleads, regardless of my reply.
This morning, the adirondack rocker is my pew.
I sit before a stack of firewood, the fat orange cat
perched atop his altar;
the congregation, the dogs at my feet, alternately snip at one another
and lie contentedly.
The Northern Flicker is my preacher, laughing his sermon against the masterworks of the mourning doves;
the smooth stones between the dill and the basil are my object lesson.
There were five. The other four had a purpose, too.
My communion is the peach I pull to my lips, reluctantly sharing
with the infernal internal curculio.
And her chapbook is my devotional, her vulnerable words
sinking to the gut of me
demanding introspection,
forcing my head back until all I see
is an endless, even blue,
And the Spirit spills from the corners of my eyes,
through my hair,
drips from my earlobes, distilling to the earth beside the
bassett's heavy jowls.
Regardless of my answer, the truth misleads.
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