Page 25 - Contrast1981Springv24
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REVEREND SCHULD Dan Wilson
He washes his hands, 23
Wringing the fragrant lather
Into the parsonage sink. .
A woman in his congregation is dead.
She swings from a tree like Judas.
In the funeral home men's room
Rusty water rinses
Yellow liquid soap.
A woman in his congregation is dead;
His counsel just a vestige in the casket.
Waking up is best.
Patterns of sun glint
On violet shadows.
The Lord has made this day.
Devotions come like cramps.
Sucking rapid breaths, he
Sneaks to the church toilet
To rub palms in private ritual.
The janitors will cluck their tongues
As they replace the bar.
"Merciful Father, remit me!"
He screams in silent Prayer,
Until knife-edged guilt
Carves the stigmata
On his own soft, white hands.
Karen Knecht
