Your church steepled itself
at theirs, and theirs towered
its weight over yours.
His church walled itself
against hers, and her church
felt so small it waned like the moon
to invisibility,
and way over there
they yoked their church
to the worst god ever
while even farther,
bombs and guns were named
god.
Meanwhile, my church is
voicing the breeding frogs
and making the trees
to bloom.
J. Pratt-Walter, © 2019
