Coventry Cathedral
Blistered pinnacles rise from the perimeter,
shattered, yet delicate as mica.
Like up-ended swallows tails they elongate, reach
toward the sun.
Inside, puddles of rain reflect
a collage of shreds, war’s fallen flock.
And I am back in 1940 with parishioners
on wooden pews for song, then
Sunday lunch and later,
near the radio for the weekly newscast.
Another cloudburst creates
a dazzling mirror image
in the gutted grater; glittering glassine
embellishing the earth.
Resting under a lintel, I consume
my sack lunch, grateful
for cheese, bread and hard green apple.
I recall recent attempts to blow up gods
and deities in Afghanistan, Iraq and Syria.
Not so easily shattered—
do they patiently wait
for a new a plinth, a new cornerstone?
Leaving, I note a raven’s nest
high on a damaged spire—birds watchful,
birds in no hurry.
At the exit, souvenir pin, a cross—
twisted nails salvaged
from splintered beams.
___
Jeanine Stevens studied poetry at UC Davis and CSU Sacramento. She has advanced degrees in Anthropology and Education. Her second poetry collection, Inheritor, was published by Future Cycle Press, 2016. Recent winner of the WOMR Cape Cod National Poetry Competition and the Finishing Line Press Open Chapbook Award, 2017. She just received her fifth Pushcart Nomination. Poems have been published in South Dakota Review, Pearl, Evansville Review, Valparaiso Poetry Journal, Forge, Rosebud, Verse Wisconsin, Stoneboat and others. Jeanine also enjoys collage and Tai Chi. Raised in Indiana, she now divides her time between Sacramento and Lake Tahoe.
Monday, April 30th, 2018 12:34 pm
Categories: 11.4, Archives, Poetry
