we both knew we were doomed

My hands fold again and again into prayer shapes:

a steeple, an angel, your face's sharp angles. You strung

all our hopes from the rafters of structures: this gothic,

that Catholic, this cracked brick, that basement.

Your promise: a ticking, a lingering wish

that persists on each altar, each future that falters.

You did the exalting. God did the exacting. Redacting

your afternoons, vestments and basements; your words

cold and keyhole, steel and exact. A harp's not real singing,

this dirge never could hold you back, and the church just

a beautiful stack of shellacked, painted marble

and wood. What good that we're here, singing hymns,

when in weeks or in months you'll recall that ripe

fruit in the mouth is worth salt in the wound.

We both knelt at the pew.

We both knew we were doomed.

[Jessica Piazza, 'Bell's Knells', from Smartish Pace]