The Church in Ruins

by John Foulcher

  

1

 

It struck our apartments, that

first bomb, kicked out the walls,

 

scattered our earthly goods

all over the street. We heard cries.

 

The second grabbed hold

of the road, shook it out, sent cars

 

spinning into the supermarket.

A third hit the bank, withdrew

 

all our life savings. An ATM lurched

past us, tumbled like a gymnast

 

into the grocery, where fruit split

like livers or spleens, it was all

 

dismemberment. Then another bomb,

and another, until only the church

 

stood below its spire, its holy

transmission, turning its other cheek.

 

We took shelter there, in that

stained glass trance, that calm. Then

 

the rose window blew in, showered us

with shards of heavenly truth.

 

2

 

The nave trickles through slats of sour

air. The walls are crusts of shadow,

the floor a sea of dust and grit, the pulpit

listing above the pews. At the altar,

a splintered frieze of the lamb and the risen sun,

a rusty glow across an empty chalice,

deciduous gold apostles. The light

in the sanctuary is a dull, ashen

 

scratch. It is not unlike nightfall.

The church creaks, as if at sea. A trickle

of voice from the priest, his prayers

about cost and forgiveness. Outside, iridescence.

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Oriole