the reverend

They say the Rev. Gillam was never without
his backward collar and walking stick.

Every morning, he clicked about,
touching the silver tip
to the rim of his stove-top hat,
blessing parishioners
as they passed.

He was slick as snake oil,
raised his scepter in celebration
of womb and soil, sprayed holy water
on unsuspecting tots
like a great sperm whale.

Sundays always burned like hell.
Eyes like angry marbles in his face,
his prayers of sulphur filled the place;
never lukewarm, always hot.

But when a coffin came to rest,
damning stick turned modest crutch,
and eased the common crush of death,
since even Jesus wept.





willow, 2010



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