老司机传媒

A pamphlet in the cathedral

tells me there are thirty-eight bodies

resting below my feet. 

Crumbling bones and hollow skulls 

underneath my rubber soles

and six feet under the dirt and mud. 

I walk under the vault, over the grave,

and between the cracks in the tile. 

I tiptoe through the labyrinth of shrines

drowning in the floor.

I step over Edward, Issac and Jane 

and walk past ancient kings and saints 

tombed beneath long-forgotten crests

and betrayed by vacant memories.

My fellow travelers crane their necks, 

staring up at the leadlight glass, 

colorfully stained with copper, 

varnished and aged by years. 

They see the saints and kings in 

brilliant blue, bloodied-red and gold 

reflecting in the breaking sun. 

I see them entombed in dirt

decaying, gnawed by worms and gray. 

I read the words etched in stone

“Heare lyes,” “Heare rests,” and “Buried Heare.”

The others gape at the cavern stretch 

of stone-carved ribs reaching heaven,

treading the gravestones beneath their feet

like crumbs to dogs or pearls to swine.

I’d heard that if I looked enough

I would see God within these walls.

But as I looked, in the dim-lit church

I didn’t see him around at all.

Crysanths bloomed between cracks of stone

and candle prayers burned unanswered.

But in the dark, on the train ride home

I thought that maybe I was wrong.

Maybe, God was also there 

in the stone, the glass, and candles

but while everyone else was looking up

I was lost in looking down.