I followed the minister
around camp, asking
about God, the minister
smiled and sent me
off to crafts. We’ll talk,
he said, but when
on the last day
I was distraught that I
hadn’t caught a fish,
he took me fishing
in the rain.
I understand now:
we are fishers of fish
not fishers of men.
It’s such a waste
a woman tells me. If
you don’t go to church, you
won’t get to heaven.
I want Wallace Stevens’
Sunday morning, the scent
of oranges, moods
in snow, the dance
of pagans in some primordial
dream. I heard
of a pipe organ lover
who traveled west
to buy pipes.
They were too big
for the car, so he
strapped them to the roof,
and through many states,
let the wind
play them home.

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I live with my daughter in the house my great-grandfather built in northeast Ohio. I’m a graduate student in the English department at Youngstown State University and recipient of YSU’s Hare Award for poetry. My poems have been published or are forthcoming in Mid-America Poetry Review, DMQ, Angle, Primavera, Versal, Poetry Midwest, YSU’s Penguin Review and others.
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kaleidowhirl  |  spring 2007