leaves blow, interceding between
the pews where Jacob confides in the LORD,
his and his and ours, the sun
rising over tired worship.
there is the smell of spider shit
from the lawn, where children
build a Promise, streams of
youth wetting appetites for
faith, and, the church itself, a holy
propitiation, with plasterpeel
walls covered in fading
crayon scribbles (Belteshazzar! who reads
a child’s scrawl!) time passes.
communion shards of little faiths
linger in the spilt wine (this, too, was
water). Jacob rises from
this place and goes somewhere. breath,
it is constricted here, with the Summer heat
swallowing the air (this, too, was hope). and,
apostate, Jacob wrestles with the LORD.
Hamish Wood is a poet and student from Sydney, Australia. His writing has appeared in the Fat City Review and Hermes, and won the People's Choice Award in the 2013 Verge Festival. He tweets occasionally under the handle @natureofthewood.
