The Pew

a poem to commemorate the Easter season upon us:

The Pew

this kneeling, that’s what you can call it
some heavenly squall
on a hectic work day

some cathedral where the bells toll
at each hour
St. James, St. Andrew, St. Michael’s

One Anglican, One Baptist, One Catholic
Head bowed, air sucked in, here
existing between the breath, it departs

with humble motivations positioned for faith
squander these religions
squelch in the silence

listen through deafness for the beatitudes
written in our names
This is what the angels do, or so it is written

if stillness stays long enough
the statues watch us, the stones need not move
they wait for us to somehow fly out of the domed roofs

Breathe as if you have been moving, say pieta
say it many times, pieta
fresh for a moment of peace, pieta
sanctity sits within, pieta
stop the motions, pieta

the rumble of the earth–the chaos that isn’t mine
or yours
Not tired, only awakened

as on certain days these eyes swell with tears
others it is dry, a rusty champagne aftertaste
incense or frankincense, the lies that smell are within reach.

Could you sit all day in this house of God? Wonder
at its conviction, its dis-ease. Real out all the idleness in awe of
where it leads?

You could make yourself a stone statue with a pretense
to weep,
stay ‘mock-still’–eternus.

Instead, just lean back on the pew, cross those legs,
inspect the regalia
above, the plaster ornaments, the paintings that gleam.

Sonia E Di Placido


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