Father's Funeral Services Poem by Rebekah Gamble

Poetry died with my father.
His death marked my first time in a Catholic church.
I remember the man nailed up high,
looking more like a beaten homeless man
than a Lord, King, or Saviour.
I remember tall colored glass
that seemed to enforce a brutality and cold with it's beauty
in the stony black window panes
that let you know exactly where your boundaries were.
I thought then that the place was full of the bodiless,
being forced into hard frames and objects.
They only want to hunt us.
The sound of voices was overwhelming.
Many voices, many people,
who did not know what they were saying.
Outside, I wanted there to be green.
Rolling green land,
so that the people would catch the contrast of life
to the church and see
that a church is nothing but cold, dry teeth
sticking up out of the ground,
chilling a person
and getting them ready for their grave.