There are no walk-ins at the Church of All Souls.
The doors are bolted
after the last parishoners cross
its splintered threshold.

Oh, things seem natural enough
on the surface,
to the passersby,
to the uninitiated.
The ladies attend in big hats, the gentlemen tug
at the necks of their fresh-from-the dry cleaners white shirts,
and the children are all appropriately antsy.
But inside,
way up front, behind the undressed altar,

the crucifix hangs upside down.

Oh, things seem natural
on the surface;
the congregation is non-denominational,
the church is tax-exempt.
You've walked past
a hundred times and heard the hollow chanting.
-- Latin, isn't it?  Has to be.
You thought as you quickened your pace.
You've walked past
a hundred times and each time you did
a chill started at the base of your spine
and crawled up inch-by-inch
to spread across your shoulders.
Goose flesh
covered your arms
and as silly as you felt,

you made the Sign of the Cross.

Not out of respect, no—
that thought never entered your frightened mind.
you did it to protect yourself.

You've walked past
a hundred times and heard them chanting:
-- Latin, isn't it?
Oh, Friend—if it is Latin it is a bastardized perversion.
You've walked past
a hundred times and heard the chants, and you knew
that plans were being made.
Evils conceived,
infections spawned ...
souls gathered.

The fonts are dry, beetled breed in the bowls,
holy water is not available to these bishops.
Mass is held on Sunday morn,
but visitors are discouraged; this Mass
is by invitation only.
-- And aren't you glad of that?
The envelopes are predictably ash-smudged
and delivered by wall-eyed crows.

There are no walk-ins at the Church of All Souls.  Amen.

© 2004