Pictures of Churches

I’m not in a terribly good mood this morning. Too much noise. Yesterday I started working in my daughter’s 5th grade classroom as a writing teacher, assisting with writing conferences. Revising, editing, etc. One young girl’s autobiography started with “My name is … and I am a 10 year old feminist.” I love this girl to pieces, but she’s already been programmed to enter her community on the hunt for enemies. You can’t be an activist and also ask for harmony. Your identity depends on the lack of it.

Anyway, everything is that sort of thing nowadays. And it’s 9/11. I can’t even bear to go around reading what anyone has to say about it. I’ll go back and read what I’ve written over the years and probably be really disappointed in myself, seeing that I too, was simply out there trying to solidify my place along some ideological line. Trying to signal. Shameful. Unavoidable.

The church to which (against which?) my kids’ school abuts is a subtle gem in a commercial district.

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I don’t often come from that direction so I don’t often see it at all. But when I told my chiropractor (hush now) where the kids go to school he said “I live right over there. That church is amazing.” He’s right. It is.

Pictures of Churches

I just want to take pictures of churches
and say nice things.
To listen to autumn.
To listen to wind.
To stop saying “sorry I
didn’t mean to offend.”

I just want to take pictures of churches
but not with my phone.
With a childish foresight.
With a childish need.
With a long-lonely longing
to be whispered to sleep.

I just want to take pictures of churches
and say nice things.
I want father to hear them.
I want mother with me.
I want these thin thirty years
to fall into the sea.

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