Tin Poem by Jenny Kalahar

Church was a tin chapel,
cold on gray mornings,
a sweatbox in summer,
all uncomfortable,
dressed for a funeral
in shiny shoes, black
over white socks.
Carpeting to muffle any joyful tap,
padded pews to cushion my agony

Church for me was a tin chapel.
Words from the front a blur of noise,
my ears perking up when the organ played,
when I could hum along before I could read the hymnal
or sing along badly.
The hymns were my heartfelt prayers
as I stared at the stained-glass lambs
and folded and refolded my mother's bulletin,
aching at the end when the organ echoed and died,
skipping free when the candles were snuffed, and we were released

Church was a tin chapel
suffocating sobersides with somber expressions.
I wanted to take a can opener to the top
to let in air and sun and the purer rays of Jesus's love
that these familiar, dull faces just weren't appreciating,
sitting stiffly in suits and skirts and white shirts,
listening more to their own worries than sermons,
paying their dues to God who wouldn't want such formalities
from his children every Sunday