Date of this Version
UReCA: The NCHC Journal of Undergraduate Research and Creative Activity: http://www.nchc-ureca.com/
In the pews, the whispers say
the Eucharist discs delight
the tongue with a dab of golden honey.
I smell a tart perfume not far away.
There is a nakedness being raked
up and caked against me. I have come
here drunk and contrary, losing myself
in these halls—a hum sways from the podium
dais. I want to meet my maker calmly.
I want to beat my faith off walls.
My father’s shadow murmured the Lord’s
Prayer whenever I looked above. My eyes
were young and seething. He died at fifty—
shriveled down and minced, powder-soft,