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Here, the new one’s electric and hums.
Here, too, upholstered pews, a last-twice-as-long-as-Jesus
miracle fabric called Herculon over foam the bums
of bums will appreciate. And me, sixteen,
sneaking out, faking a coughing spell
and bound for the old church next door, alone,
but only for a while, I hope. The girl
I’m meeting there is named Babette, known as Butch.
Every Sunday for a month we’ve met there,
in the choir loft. She’ll undress and let me watch,
and then we’ll desanctify the place—the pews, the air,
the ashtray a former organist abandoned.
Afterward I’ll light my Kool with hers.
The stained glass window will be shot with sun
this morning and give our skins a special shimmer.
I almost believe I made this happen by praying,
every Sunday for a year, alone and morose,
coming here and staying
until the doxology. Butch is pretty without her clothes.
If it is God from whom all blessings flow,
then what I’ve learned in the choir loft is faith.
Yes, she’s there, and already naked by the time I show.
Holy, holy, holy, with her angelic mouth, she sayeth.