it’s the inhale before worship begins.
we line up in the hall,
Bible-bearer, acolyte, and two women
in robes and stoles.
breathless latecomers slide in before us
(that way they’re still on time);
piano prelude drifts through doors
thrown open.
and then
the scritch of a match,
and flame kisses wick
of a long, glimmering…
what’s-it-called?
acolyte thingy.
and then, two clanging bells
announce us:

we walk in, and it always seems silly
and exquisite.
we are a concise parade:
the Bible is placed,
nestled in the pulpit;
the lamp is lit.
i move toward my seat,
row one, in front of
a man and his daughter.
the little girl glances about
in the reverent hush;
then, catching my eye
she says it loud:
hi,
mommy.