I remember Uncle Paul at my age now;

sucked dry to jerky, bone and voice by

decades of denial, sin and repentance;

sin and repentance, sin and repentance….

emptied of all but that ecstatic eye-light.

Could repentance be more ruinous than sin?

Long arms flailed us from behind his pulpit,

while his voice, with the same wind-sucking

cadence rasp ingrained from childhood church

served us fiery red-lakes of eternal anguish

like biscuits spread with strawberry jam;

words flung joyously in condemning glee:

You will burn forever and forever in Hell,

torn from limb to limb by  burning demons

unless you repent! Repent! Repent! Repent! 

I had only heard of  preachers doing this;

walking the pews, but never been a witness.

Uncle Paul jumped from pulpit to floor to

front pew seat and up and, with divine elation,

stepped the oak pew backs from front to rear

of his tiny church and back again, flinging

his diminished body to right and left and right

on trembling legs, blessing believers and me,

alike, with spittle from Gods’ own word.

Those in his path parted as the Red Sea,

leaning only slightly, as not to offend,

to right or left with graceful ducks of head.

I wore the same pious grin of adoration as

faithful; entranced by his joy of satiation.

A child had capitulated to terror once

and finally walked the aisle of Amazing Grace

and mustered a lie of faith to profess belief;

a child kneeling, humbled, but without relief.

I lay spread-eagle on stony ground, open

for reception for years. Only scent sweet

taste of dirt and thistles have cared for me;

holding and soothing without expectation.