Church, Of A Sunday, In May Poem by Bob Bowers

I pull myself up,
Slide along the pew,
My trousers smooth
Shining with wear and youth’s age.
I settle in
Between my brothers
Equally liquid
In the summer heat
Among these churchgoers
These believers
These righteous poor.

Our mother joins us there
The softness of her body warm
Against my thigh.
On this Sunday
She is alone
In this place of mystery
This place of solemnity and quiet
This place not meant for scurrying feet
Of children unwatched by parents.

I look up and see my father
Where the minister should be
Sitting silent in repose
Rising up, spreading his arms
The cross behind him a shadow.

He steps forward
Drops his arms
Holds tight the pulpit
The lectern of this classroom,
Its wood stump cut off from life
Before the cross was borne,
And lifts his voice.

Quiet descends.
All is still.

“Lift up your child
Despite his crying out
Despite the puke he spills upon your heart.
Hold close this life
Which you must lose some day.
Draw in his pain
Despite your own travail.
For it is not death
Which brings you fear,
But loss of life.”

He turns away.
Sits down.
Silence surrounds me.
I feel lost.

Who is this man
Who is nothing
More than my own life.
This man who sits beside
My mother.
Except today.
Today he is not here.


3/16/04