to the church pews
a poem about wrestling with your faith
to the church pews.
To remember this place is to remember the suffocating glances of your supposed devout neighbors.
Their eyeballs come to penetrate the top layer of my skin and journey where they are not welcome: below the light among the veins and blood and bones.
They are trapped under my skin and sit uncomfortably for the next holy hour.
When I feel their stares, I’m reminded of hers.
Regardless if we are seated or standing or kneeling, she likes to scan. She likes to search the crowd of worshippers around us. For what, I’m unsure.
The pews crescendo outward from the altar; a crescent moon shining just enough light to illuminate her subjects.
It is strange how even within the silence of mass, her voice shouts and screams and is unimaginably loud in my head.
It’s hard to find God amidst all this noise.
I wonder what we’re supposed to be worshiping: the altar or its disciples?
