JEFFREY MORGAN
The Insomniac's Guide to Empty Churches
I like how the pew implies the body
has a listening angle,
how the rows remind you of being
the only person in a boat.
I like the ribbons in the pages
like tongues that must
be abandoned to describe astonishment,
and the narrowness of the central aisle--
its patience and economy dispelled
in the expanse overhead.
The things we say to God
in the rose light and geometries of stained glass
or the darkness of more desperate hours
or both--I like that you only get to be alone
with some of your decisions.
Maybe grace is made of the many
forgotten things and lost parts
of the composite, how you can be
so startled by the guttural
echoing of the wood
as you shift your weight to rise.
115 The Paris-American
I like how the pew implies the body
has a listening angle,
how the rows remind you of being
the only person in a boat.
I like the ribbons in the pages
like tongues that must
be abandoned to describe astonishment,
and the narrowness of the central aisle--
its patience and economy dispelled
in the expanse overhead.
The things we say to God
in the rose light and geometries of stained glass
or the darkness of more desperate hours
or both--I like that you only get to be alone
with some of your decisions.
Maybe grace is made of the many
forgotten things and lost parts
of the composite, how you can be
so startled by the guttural
echoing of the wood
as you shift your weight to rise.
115 The Paris-American
Jeffrey Morgan is the author of Crying Shame (BlazeVox, 2011). New poems appear, or will soon, in Barrow Street, Bat City Review, Bellevue Literary Review, Painted Bride Quarterly, Pleiades, Third Coast, and West Branch, among others. He lives in Bellingham, WA and blogs occasionally at Thinnimbus.tumblr.com.
