Sunday, October 12, 2014

How I Felt at Church Today: The Dish and the Star.


Sometimes I feel
like my chest
is a concave dish,
curving from shoulder to shoulder.

My heart is an eight-pointed star--
the kind they show in the sky
on the night Jesus was born.


And that star,
my heart,
hovers in the middle
of the dish,
its light hitting
here and there
and reflecting back
there and here,

so that the whole brazen dish
is lit up with sharp golden light.

Light that buzzes and pings softly
as it bounces off
the sunken brass surface.

Its most distinguishing feature
is how it lasts--
on and on,
perpetuating its own glow
and buzz.
For minutes at a time.

It feels good,
but good seems
too simple a word.

It feels so bright
that it is warm.

And it feels so warm
that it's joyous.

And it feels so joyous
that it's sublime.

And it feels so sublime
that it's terrifying.

Terrifying in the way that
awe is terrifying--
reverence mixed with fear.

Fear of losing
the dish and the star.
And having
a normal chest and heart again.

But even more,
fear that,
if life can be this good,
I am going to have to be
something more
than what I am now.

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