Bound

I sit in the Cathedral centred beneath the skull at the feet of Christ’s crucifix while importance echoes from the 2000 pipes of the organ beneath the stained-glass flowered star. Oh to belong to the strength of the arches—to not be another camera toting tourist—to be here to pray—to passing kneel as daily service to something larger than the self. The chords try to draw me into the fold to pin me down—preserve me between the pages like a four-leaf clover, a trinity shamrock, a squashed spider smeared and gnarled branches of legs turned web between the window frame of stained-blood stained-glass a phallic flaming sword arousing the wrong emotions. But I am not bound to a word I do not believe exists. Angelic arms are open but they’re not looking at me—with the eyes the arms are diverted always away always to another seat. Free Hugs signs with a footnote: not for you. In the pews I look like I belong, but I don’t and I never will. The chords and arches try to shut out the world—to keep my mind within—but I am not in this Cathedral centred beneath the skull at the feet of Christ’s crucifix while importance echoes from the 2000 pipes of the organ beneath the stained-glass flowered star. I can see through them. I can fold them flat between these pages like a four-leaf clover, a trinity shamrock, a squashed spider. I can bind them without their word.

May 28, 2010 in the pews of the Galway Cathedral.

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About writewithlightning

I'm a published Canadian poet and fiction writer, posting haiku daily @writelightning on most social media sites. Please like and comment so that I know you're reading. It means a lot to me! View all posts by writewithlightning

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