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.