Sunday
The church bells ring under a gentle
Sunday sun.
The farmer’s family arrives late,
slipping not-so-silently into the pews
with the toddler restless
and the sister crying over her stained dress.
They sit in stuffy silence,
fans slowly slicing the air above their heads.
The priest in his black soutane
clutches a worn Bible behind the pulpit,
and all of these faces are turned towards
a broken man’s drooping head,
all blood and teeth and spit
masquerading as grace.
And he is thinking that a man with
blood on his palms cannot possibly
care enough about an empty bank account
or sick dairy cows and dying corn,
or a fourth baby on the way.
He holds out his own calloused palms,
lets grace sit in his mouth,
swallows.
Blessed are those who wait.
The Junk Drawer 