Every Sunday after church
Ezekiel’s wheels spun and dazzled
on the kitchen ceiling over their heads
painted there by their words–
I saw them there; those, and angels
with wings covering jewel-toned eyes
chanting “Holy, Holy, Holy,”
and they did not notice,
mom and grandma both
arguing prophecy,
eyes on their bibles
to check each other
for years the thought of eternal damnation
carried with it a scent of tea and honey;
and braided with their voices,
the shout that raises the dead
accompanied by whispers of thin onionskin pages
flipping faster than thought
and both of them smiling at me
reading my bible by dappled Sunday light
of my own volition, neither checking
to see what my 8-year-old self
was reading after church–it was all scripture
and therefore safe
neither realizing
I was memorizing Leviticus
and learning all sorts of ways
to earn stoning
***Yes–I really, really, really did that. Was not allowed to go outside and play on Sunday afternoons, so I read Leviticus.
Susan Daniels Poetry 