Singing in church
Tone-deaf melody wanderer,
tin fiddle tenor,
soprano like a bandsaw,
rook’s croak smoker
hopping note to
note somewhere
beneath the staves,
alto next to me, her voice like cake,
barrel of baritone bouncing
down the aisle,
serviceable tenor pounding
his notes with a hammer,
a mother with a voice
pure enough to cut through
secret sins like a laser
through thick corten steel:
these and all the saints,
all the company of heaven,
stirred with the long spoon
of centuries, waves of song deep
enough to carry, cover, hold
even raspy, reluctant me.
