I decided that a week late is better than never at all. Last week's Poetry Thursday's prompt was "image inspiration." When I went to Georgia I was shown a very special "secret church" and the idea of old, forgotten churches appeals to my soul. Here's what I think may have gone down in this one:
You let yourself in by unknotting
a piece of rope
whoever had the last key
has gone home to Jesus and they forgot
to leave a note.
Come and breathe in the dust
of Spirit forgotten.
Curdled like leftover milk
from the cup of the Divine.
Yet the beauty of what was
is here in the cracks
running along each wall.
Old fans with the names of funeral homes
and the used car place down the road
fluttering like the angels we believe
follow us each step of this crumbling, falling down life.
Jesus and his lambs back and forth
back and forth
they go, help us to be like a lamb
a little lamb don't make much trouble, you know.
Sweet songs of redemption
like a sea of honey once, thick around
sturdy ankles and sensible church shoes
Sister Eunice at the pump organ
for as long as we could sing.
and once I danced here, yes, in the Baptist church
as serpents flickered their tongues
like friendly neighborhood cats
twining round my hands, like their ancestor
beguiled my mother Eve
but I didn't fall.