Arts+Culture

Arts+Culture

We Are the Eighth Day, © Melanie Weidner

Poetry

Exchange

I am fearfully made and I imagine
the sleek curves of my kidneys and
the round red onion shape of my bladder.
I will never see those parts with their perfect forms,
their elegant overlaps sealed in my skin.
All I know is their transparent function, or its change,
or that blind nerve dance we call pain.

I will never see those long pale ropes that take
my food and turn it to steps or speech. All I know
is the wonder of containing such exchange,
that lets the morning eggs and the noon bread
rise as song in the kitchen, laughter in the back yard,
rise as indignation, care, or grieving,
rise as love or longing or belated thanks.

Poetry

Rubrics

Things go unnoticed around here
while we do the important stuff
the singing praying sermonizing baptizing.
We don’t read the instructions
want to get on with it insert the batteries
push the button watch the screen light up.
Script stage directions steps one two three are all
fine print we think, or don’t until
we find ourselves at home
watching rain soak the garden
and notice that the screen has gone dark.
When is it that we turn to face
the back of the church? Do we stand or sit
at the Psalm and is there anything at all
about bowing as the cross makes its leisurely progress?
What words are to be said
while earth is cast upon the coffin
and who was it after all
who was supposed to meet the body

and go before it to the grave?