Gospel
Swing low so I
can step inside —
a humming ship of voices
big with all
the wrongs done
done them.
No sound this generous
could fail:
ride joy until
it cracks like an egg,
make sorrow
seethe and whisper.
From a fortress
of animal misery
soars the chill voice
of the tenor, enraptured
with sacrifice.
What do I see,
he complains, notes
brightly rising
towards a sky
blank with promise.
Yet how healthy
the single contralto
settling deeper
into her watery furs!
Carry me home,
she cajoles, bearing
down. Candelabras
brim. But he slips
through God’s net and swims
heavenward, warbling.