Del Cain was in Church Today
“Write about me, I gave you your heart.”
Song on the Prairie Wind
Del Cain
I walked through
the hulking doors of
Trinity Church, into a pasture,
prairie grass and sage
tossed in a wind
that will never end,
sitting in the pew
where I always sat,
just close enough to the back
to make a quick escape.
Del in front of me
head bowed in prayer
or perhaps asleep
but, most certainly,
still dead.
A meadowlark alights on the holy font.
The wooden cross lit from behind
hovering above a stone altar,
casting shadows on cattle
in the aisles.
Chandelier lights in a row like
fenceposts demarking a pasture
as the congregation
reads a psalm.
Their words, in tandem,
latching on to the next
and sweeping on through the sanctuary
like a string of fifteen gauge barbed-wire,
one end stapled to a post,
slack wire pulled taut
with every breath
every syllable
every clasp of the gripper
as the fence line extends.
In the Chisos Mountains Foothills
Do you remember the night we sat
on the roof of the farmhouse Grams left me,
once her diamond,
but now coated in Chihuahuan dust
and the scent of pinyon pines?
We counted satellites
streaking across the stars,
your hair cast in the wind,
strands of silk on my cheek -
a web I welcomed, one that stuck
when your fingers met mine
and took the darkness from me.
I never got to tell you how your spirit tasted,
or why I surrendered so quickly,
or how,
after you left,
I stood on the roofline,
atop the world,
my cockscomb raised,
my call shattering glasses
on the dinner table inside, set up so nicely
just for you.
An east coast transplant in Texas, John Bartell enjoys Shi
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