PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

"I am not the fruit of my parents' love!" the English major cried, spitting the words in the face of the priest;

"I am not what they made together in the hopes that I would be what I am," and her shoulders slump as if disappointed in her own self, and she kneels on the altar in exasperation rather than adoration, stares heavenwards for sense rather than salvation

"Are you listening?  Do you understand me?"  

And maybe the world disappears, starting with the audience, the congregation, leaving big blue holes of sky and ocean, spreads up until she floats along on the altar-raft, all twisted and sobbing

And the priest bends a bit, as much as his aged form will allow, and rests a hand on fury's head before he splashes over the English major, all water, all air, vaporized and gone,

And next, the crucifix that lays on the floor of the altar melts into a little fishing hole, T-shaped and cold, and she watches in horror

And maybe she'll rise to her knees, straddle the bit of ocean between her legs and scream:

"The Lord speaketh thus: 'Every branch in Me that does not bear fruit He takes away,'"  And she pauses as seagulls cock their heads in wonder.  "'and every branch that bears fruit He prunes, that it may bear more fruit!'"

And the lights dim on her moment of glory and she steps boldly into the sea and sinks, dead weight watching the sky grow smaller.