Poetry

Bodies, Worshipped


I gave my sermon through my hands,
circling my thumbs in hymnal repetition,
every moment of resistance between our skin
an outcry from the congregation of nerves,
the need to be closer to that they worship.

Our bodies have been temples for unsure followers.
They stumbled through the doors in an effort
to find faith,
to find a meaning,
and crawled, gluttonous, upon our altars.

With prayers left unanswered,
they doused their hands in our holy water
and ate our bread, drank our wine,
rising from their knees as they became full.
They searched for more as we lay drained.
Our mass was too much and not enough.

As my hands found the nape of your neck,
I read the tension in your shoulders.
They have carried their cross and find new ones still.
In my worship, I lift the weight,
and in my faith, I emulate your stride.

Our mass continues
As fingers fold over one another
in shared prayer.
In our Baptism,
a Confirmation.