Here I sit on the yellow timber pew,
five minutes before Thursday six pm mass
the silence bearing down on closed hands
pierced —
by the drone of an old lady kneeling at the rear
gripping a white plastic rosary
her wedding finger on a tarnished plaque
a mortal husband’s name worn thin
The moustached parish father in his white alb
not yet vested in his embroidered cross
sneaks
a glance or two out of the sacristy doorway
counting parishioners
one head,
the next
and one venial sin
Ears attuned for the ring of the little brass bell —
I'm pulled to the right of the altar
of St Peter and his shepherd's staff striking a pose on a marble plinth
then wander back past the unadorned weekday altar
a baby Saviour, his pink cheek nuzzled in his father Joseph’s plaster beard
From the crown of my head, right in the centre where brown hair thins
raw thoughts spin to a fine glass thread —
drifting in figure-eights
gazing up — flaked clouds of white acrylic stained with old winter rains
between the tip of St Peter's mitre and Joseph's brown curls
Then it dives — pikes and straightens,
to wrap around St Peter's sandaled big toe
slows — the red flicker of the sanctuary lamp shines through the thread’s glass skin
Hesitates — touches tip to lace hem
of the white cloth on the altar
the spun glass turns page white
a breath
returns — down the loops and curves of the single thread,
whispering
back
into my head, down
again into my lungs
exhale
small
thursday’s graceTrevor Foulstone is a poet from Melbourne, Australia. His work moves through the body before it reaches the mind — locating emotion in physical sensation, finding weight in ordinary moments of contact and loss. He writes with precision about what the skin knows before language catches up. His poetry has appeared in Words of the Lamb Magazine and the inaugural edition of The Bleeding Margin.
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