I mistook the chancel for a tub of blood
and the lectern for a cup of blood
and the alter for a screen of blood
and the chalice for a spray of blood
and the book for a quart of blood.
I thought the baptismal font was a gush of blood
and the windows stained with blood
and the door choked with blood
and the pulpit awash with blood
and the canopy composed of blood.
It seemed the hymnboard was a box for blood
and the gallery a bag of blood
and the choir stalls so many homes or blood
and the taberancle a dream of blood
and the vestibule an arch of blood.
All stone, stone, stone.
12 or 20 (second series) questions with Marcella Durand
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*Marcella Durand’s* [photo credit: Corinne Botz] latest book, *A Winter
Triangle*, received the 2024 Poetic Justice Institute Prize and was published
in ...
1 hour ago
1 comment:
The poem is really excellent.
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