Watching A Christian Walk

by Renwick Berchild

You own a holy fork with seven tines.
The winged lion of Saint Michael meets with you
at the marina every Monday through Friday in the form of the sea. You say

that whatever is out there is in the little things,
and is not concerned with money or fame or how much you know.
You say to understand I must watch the grass grow:

It performs this one single act its whole life. See?

Laying a rose before your wooden Virgin Mary in the alcove,
you look down at your feet, breathe in
cool and briny thoughts, wonder aloud
what you are going to today, if there is something you should be doing today,
if there is something you have forgotten today,
if it’s going to rain.

Together, we don’t eat fish.
Jesus is an engorged tabby cat you adopted from the Humane Society,
and not a male. All your fellow Christian neighbors are mad at you
for naming the cat
Jesus.

You tell me that when you were young your mother said,
“Stop trying to be somebody. You are somebody. So are they.”
And she would point to whoever it was you were mad at.

Pride you say, is the Deadliest Sin, for all the others
stem from there.

Your skin is like leather. Your boots are wrapped with duck tape
and cord. Your beard is in the shape of a door.
You call me when the sun’s out.
I don’t believe in God.

We go sailing anyway.

One Comment to “Watching A Christian Walk”

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