Our Song

Poison ivy and honeysuckle pry open the doors
of the abandoned church where we were married.
Inside, thrown through shattered windows,
headstones sit in pews, a congregation of names
waiting for the word. Behind the pulpit, a pentacle
of syringes adorns the wall; where we spoke
our vows, a circle of broken bottles.
Because I still love you, I strike the match.

Our church crumbles under smoke. Swallows
flock to firelight. What will they find
in the ashes? The steeple lists until
the glowing bell strikes one pure note.
Somewhere we have hurt the world.
Sing what words you know.

Kip Knott | Mudlark No. 26
Contents | From a Shawnee Burial