Slipping in without paying
by the early hour feels like
sneaking under the good eye of God.
The nave is empty. Light fractures
through glass stained by ancient men
who labored for something greater
than their own lives. Art
and sculpture circle the nave,
women with faces soft as bellies.
Images of men looking down
and the masses looking up.
I’ve never been a believer
and it would be easy for me to say
those poor people, swallowing
the bread of belief like comfort food.
But what do I know of the effort
that made this stone. What do I know
of conviction or even love.
I don’t know what is to come,
only how hard this light
must work when always
there is something
we can’t see past, a wall
with another side and its own
reflection. I sit in front of Christ
and look up to the rose window
and think of how we all want
to be right and certain, how
there is no patience for approximation.
But this ribbed vaulting is precise as a pin.
Murmurs from the cloister. Ah,
but let me rest. I’m so tired
of research and decision. And then,
before I am discovered,
I make my first real prayer, then pray
that my prayer is for the right thing,
and slip out into a new hunger.