Unbuckle the ancestors
bring the garden indoors.
Let them see
what we’ve done with the place.
The windows are stained,
pews padded,
statues reformed,
doors bulletproofed.
The baptismal font
sucks plastic
from the ocean
and pepper sprays rapists.
The choir loft links
escalators to Equatorial
canopies, the hymn books
recall the missing birds.
Communion is still
hand to mouth.
Host holds hope
for hostages home.
Scripture, devoid
of opinion, rings
like a dial tone,
faith, voice activated.
Neighborly kindness
pays the neighbor’s rent.
Old timers recognize,
and ask someone
if they’d like a hand
with believing.