Untitled
by Tony Hackett

Runestone, volume 4

when i was young,

every Sunday my mother

would walk with me

to church

disguised as a Chinese bakery.

 

we would tear into the

pink box & find God

in pork buns & egg tarts

& we took turns

tearing from loaves

stories with neither

beginnings nor ends.

 

walking back i was

tugged past a thin man

in one of grandma’s nighties                

who I called the Priest

& his watcher who

choked cigars in a lawn chair

on the porch.

 

threadbare gown & scarved head

the Priest would look up from

watering petunias

whose petals wrapped

secrets

& smile

a jagged skyline.

face cleft by canyons,

his bones sang of

discord &

bleach.

 

mother didn’t have answers

to what i would ask,

but each time reminded me

that “men who lay with men

were certain to receive

justice.”

 

i would continue on

& walk between

tree branches hanging

thin

like arms

off the sides of the

sky-bed.

palms up;

seeking forgiveness.

 

later i am brave

& i walk to church

with only a bulb on

my tongue

& find a silhouette aching

in windows bandaged

with plea-deal prayers

with Jesus

& the Devil

& hear the whisper-weep of

the petunias’

leather skin. 

i get my pink box

of God

& hurry.