Grassy Branch Pentecostal Church, Interior Space
all rectangles, plank benches, walls
the color of mushrooms or eggshells
ceiling of poplar, high, unadorned,
whip-sawed, people waiting, heads
bowed, not moving yet, dry leaves
before the wind swirls, Bible stand
with wings on the sides, pitcher
and cups on one wing, mints
on the other, people with raised arms,
open hands, bulbs hanging
from wires, no brightness
before the power comes
body as tabernacle, as ball jar
clean, bare, made ready
pressing along
Grassy Branch Pentecostal Church, Velvet Painting
of the Last Supper
when the prayers of the brothers
and sisters come as slamming waves,
he feels warm, for a moment,
unburdened, clean, then he looks up,
catches the eye of clumsy Judas,
green as a snake, elbowing the salt
shaker and spilling out bad luck,
help him, he thinks, tell him to put back
the rope, the coins, the field of blood,
the kiss, then he looks into his hands,
the pink lines, the cheats, a scale of skin
Grassy Branch Pentecostal Church, Quilt over
the Sleeping Baby
while the people dance at the altar rail,
sing at the top of their lungs, laugh
and sob, the Jacob’s ladder quilt draped
over the bench makes a room of hush
for the baby on a pillow on the floor,
keeping to herself what dreams
may visit in that muffled cell,
dark as the face of the deep,
hidden as the snail-shell
spiraling in the seam of coal
return to poetry home