The Church in Ruins
by John Foulcher
1
It struck our apartments, that
first bomb, kicked out the walls,
scattered our earthly goods
all over the street. We heard cries.
The second grabbed hold
of the road, shook it out, sent cars
spinning into the supermarket.
A third hit the bank, withdrew
all our life savings. An ATM lurched
past us, tumbled like a gymnast
into the grocery, where fruit split
like livers or spleens, it was all
dismemberment. Then another bomb,
and another, until only the church
stood below its spire, its holy
transmission, turning its other cheek.
We took shelter there, in that
stained glass trance, that calm. Then
the rose window blew in, showered us
with shards of heavenly truth.
2
The nave trickles through slats of sour
air. The walls are crusts of shadow,
the floor a sea of dust and grit, the pulpit
listing above the pews. At the altar,
a splintered frieze of the lamb and the risen sun,
a rusty glow across an empty chalice,
deciduous gold apostles. The light
in the sanctuary is a dull, ashen
scratch. It is not unlike nightfall.
The church creaks, as if at sea. A trickle
of voice from the priest, his prayers
about cost and forgiveness. Outside, iridescence.