Noun Religion
by Dylan Buckser-Schulz
A mason regrouts the church basement
on his knees in the early wet grass.
A members-only mass will commence
at seven. I imagine that, to a force elastic
and private as the gum he chews,
he prays. My grandfather
recites to my sleeping grandmother
the name of each bird appearing on the TV:
robin, cardinal, jay, cardinal, robin. An incidental
symmetry accumulates. Her insides fail, tendon
by tendon. It’s called a system: in her soft, pruney grip,
the universe washes its back.
Meanwhile my work shoes rupture
into ruinous comfort. Time mimics the shoes, sliding on
with less and less resistance. I run errands in my head, then whoosh,
I’m bagging peppers, boarding the train. Outside, I spot
a broken generator wreathed in wild flowering basil.
It looks like a robot fossil. I feel strongly
about this. I would get married there.
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