knox wesleyan alliance church, 1994
petrolia street // knox, pa

William James

a tin pail full of caterpillars 
soaked in bleach. sweat beading 

on pastor blair’s brow as he paces 
behind the pulpit like a caged 

wolf. wiping spit from the corners 
of his lips with a cotton flag the color 

of surrender. silver hair flecked with foam, 
the mouth of a racehorse ridden to collapse. 

jaw unhinged as if to swallow 
the congregation whole. a snake 

with a robin’s egg in its mouth. 
the ice pack on mom’s eye, slowly 

melting. bruises the color of october 
sunsets hidden behind trailer park walls. 

oil-slick taste of dad’s hunting rifle 
& the way it pressed against my teeth; 

then dad at the altar again the next 
morning, on his knees in search of 

absolution for the cask of molten rage 
he poured over our house the night before. 

blood smeared on the doorway 
to keep the angels at bay.

pawpaw’s clawed hand snapping shut
around my wrist like a bear trap,

yanking me up from the threadbare
carpet of the tabernacle floor. 

how his glare still wilts me, joy turning
to salt in the soil of my childhood. 

how i am still a small animal caught 
in a terrible machine. how i am still 

a shivering creature, frantically 
searching for cover in an open field, 

the sky above me a thick black cloud 
of circling hawks. a chain coiled 

serpent-tight around my throat, ratcheting tighter
& tighter with every whispered hymn. 

a single candle burning itself to ash,
darkness swallowing a windowless room.