Sacred Heart

It was the tiniest of holy places

A congregation of simple beads
Strung together by the rural thread
Of local farm faith

A tapestry of visions and ideas

That reveled in backyard boundaries
And ancestral certainties
Handed down through generations

The catechisms and cakes sales

The sermon’s command on when to
Stand and sit or stand and kneel;
Books held open like birds in hands

As a nine year old, I often ran to the pastures

Pretending not to hear the calling
When time to load into the Valiant
On those fastidious Sunday mornings

Sometimes they would catch me

At the bottom of the stairs which
Would mean more time confessing
The mundane troubles of obscurity

On Christmas Eve we stayed up late

Attending midnight mass where
All of the glittering blues and reds and golden halos
Compressed into this tiny church like miracles

A time filled with clean reflection

A time filled with clear sacrifice
And perhaps, the only time
I ever saw my father cry.