The Service Poem by Suzanne Louise Bishop

The vicar was dead.
His son came instead,
Put on his midnight cape and
Stalked the pews, his fudge voice
Filled my mood, my head
And my long, long nights.
I used to cry when I dreamt the colour red,
My visions of silk were rebuked,
The thought of purgatory made me puke.
But I woke up in the end,
No wrathful hand of the Lord did transcend.
Father have I sinned? He mused.
Tragic masks bound to his face.
Gratuitous stuff I could erase.
I sneer at his precious concern.
All I have learned is that I am almighty.
So now my Sunday best gets worn to bed.
By the power vested in me,
I shall raise him or strike him down dead.
I like the dog collar circling his neck,
Pressed against the apple lump of his throat,
Under the black Cossack;
A slice of white. My daily bread.
It’s all I eat, all of this time I was underfed.
He wants to show me his
Skin bound book. No. I am his book.
Read it out loud I’ll tell him
And he will open me, his bible,
And find his little god inside,
With his slow hand tracing up my spine.
The lord is my shepherd,
I shall not want.