HABITUS
Crossing this threshold, I dip my hand in water,
re-inscribe my birth. Stolid air
ushers me in, thick with dust
and smoke and resin
and with voices, shuffling feet,
creaking floorboard and pew—all music
to uncloak my solitude.
A votive wick receives my longing,
solid bench my hip’s ache.
I bring few words;
but words are given: prayer-book patterns,
labyrinthine cadences that know
the one path in
and out.
Like abrasions worn into icons and sculptures,
patina rubbed into pew and prie-dieu,
slowly, faith
is worked into me
by cobalt light through storied windows,
saints in stone and bronze and flesh,
hymnal, incense cloud, and kneeler,
plate and cup: Take,
and eat. I’m given God
to interpose between clenched teeth.