Within this simple chapel, located near the navel
of the little clinic, the walls are all the white
of paper before a voice finds the keeping
flesh of it—they carry nothing except the quiet
of Christ, bystander on a bronze cross above
the only door. In the middle pew, you are a hyphen
seated between your parents, the murmur
of one prayer beside the crashing
of another. On the aisle side, your father
hunches over, laced fingers raised to his face,
the undertow motion of his lips
like Sunday decorum, while the ballyhoo
psalm of your mother vibes a violent tone.

Inside some other room, fluorescent bulbs burn
their focus on the stillness of your brother,
the boy intubated on the table, brought across the island
by sirens after fainting, the foam and seizing
panic in the hot blow of a schoolday noon.
In the jolt of things, you are just a child in the raw
womb of this chapel, head squeezed
between your mother’s bosom and sleeve.
She rocks you in the pew, nose drool in the groove
above her monologue, her perfume minting over
the bite of bleach and lime that shines
the tiles. Here, in this chapel, you begin to listen
to the faith they call from the core,
a bone grammar, the spirit piping and hoarse.
You tune yourself to this iambic:
your father’s secret pleas—your mother’s fluent

hallelujah booms. Here, in this chapel, you try
to catch every breath they shape to power.
You remain patient in this business, casting
your net, learning by their stanzas
how to speak the holy down, a new vocation
waiting when you exit, lungs full
of phrases that will fail as well, the fodder God will need
to keep decay at bay. Already, your own
words cower in the wound
your mouth makes now. The perfect order
becomes apparent, then it fades
like echoes from the walls and once
the heavy clears your throat, you ask to see the body
simply, cleaned of all deceit, a request
you will repeat forever on pages the shade of salt.

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