By: Lindsay Luchinsky

This curving,
cynical back behind me, it’s:
A warm bench,
A warm chestnut bench,

A warm chestnut.  A cold foreboding pew.
Luster here has now turned bland:
contaminated with waltzing dust and
a reek of pages
not turned for a decade.
Maybe more.
Perched, I am, and surrounded by
glass expressions of royalty
stained with too-bright
rouge (my face)
And taunting.
Darkening milk walls
Rise up in an effort to protect.

Dearest, Each glance casts a new shadow.

In a whirl are your heads
Engrossed in spitting sentimentality
that is all too real, but
Explicit against us.
All the same, they are,
The Ones Who Sigh who say,
“I’m sure we’ve years to yearn to sit in pews,”
all the same,
which push you from their laps.
But you yearn to sit in pews!
the ones directly below
a Father I never met.
Outside is a light
casting on –
lookers and good –
But outside is a light
forcing colors of a virgin
to Thrust and Marry
into my sight.