The bishop slaps
my cheek and moves two squares
to stand beneath the queen of copious
tears
before asking the other pawns their
saintly names.
He lays a leprous hand upon their heads,
his gambit a diagonal move to capture them
all.
I walk down the aisle past the stained light
and a man, arm outstretched, sinking
beneath the waves.
They say that gravity and darkness claimed
his brain.
The arches of the castle open to the wide
and wicked world.
Years later I return to the stone rookery
to see if the apostolic font is still the old
Roman twelve
or, better yet, Corinthians thirteen.
The stained-glass windows are broken,
and a pigeon occasionally lands on the
marble head of the king.
The silence is confirmed: I sit and stare
and wait,
but there is no tintinnabulation or waft
of holy smoke.
For now there is a stalemate, though
perhaps on some distant day
the bells, now rusted and still, may have
awoken.
~William Hammett
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