By Elizabeth Kneibert

At first light the gospel hums its praise through strained ribs,

Collapsing on knees in exasperated confession—where to begin?

Upon Earth’s fiery benediction only the altar will stand: a bench of Eden’s

Undergrowth, brambles and thorns deified in welded gold.

The modesty of theology hangs from bulging rafters—

A corpse, rotting under the gaze of illuminated stained glass saints.

Heavy-laden walls of pristine plaster recite the stoic plaques of donors,

Palavering with the divine poetry which pours from the pulpit.

Molting iconography twists like silver scaled snakes,

A kaleidoscope of conniving symbols: crescents and tridents.

The parchment pages turn with such exalted rapture

Latin and Hebrew bleed from the unclothed polyglot’s spine.

If this fountain of holy water was to upturn

into Cocytus would I find a more convincing presence?

Would the mud and rusted pipes of the sanctuary’s underbelly yield conviction?

The votives’ timid flames only add shadows to the walls of the holy cave.