The hate mail appeared
in the church Suggestion Box.
No signatures.
I could go on. But note
my lanky beloved still reliving
his bell-bottom years,
12-string-calloused fingertips smoothing
complaints: torn corners gouged by a pen—
someone’s bruising disdain, or was it
fear? —that inmost wheeze like a punctured lung.
Hurts change. Offenses, taken, my minstrel knows,
cut close as a rib morphing into a lever, poised
to pry open hearts, expose schism: what we want,
to this day, dividing us. Oh,
those soul-ramp ascents
he composed in the moment—lift-off progressions
as ivories, voices, and organ entwined—
unrepeatable fusion. He knew, even back then,
church was the best collective
most members answered to, a family so often
testy. Territorial. Inch by twitch,
wince by lurch, how does singing together
downgrade to turf? Don’t we crave, like air,
the stairless rise, alighting at last,
united, before God’s throne? Not this
elbowing forward, agendas blazing.
Ask my beloved, even as illness smudges
his memories.
Where someone is letting go,
something else gives way.
Love can breathe here.
Photo by Leiada Krözjhen on Unsplash
One Response
Thank you, Laurie. Powerful stuff. Now a retired pastor with a bell-bottomed past, I could feel this one. I especially liked the line, “elbowing forward, agendas blazing.” Thank you.