Sunday Mornings

by Bryce Alan Flurie
As the amens rang out
and the hymnals closed,
the ladies began
a percussion, a soft swishing
of painted Jesus fans glued
to curved popsicle sticks.

The crinkling of
King James’ pages.
Mmm hmms, Amens,
Heads nodding in agreement.
A call for the old man
to become new.
The sinner to sanctification,
a rebel to repentance.
Then as elbows planted firmly
on the old walnut alter,
Just As I Am
Without One Plea was mouthed
in a reverent harmony,
a flat tenor behind me
choking back tears.

As I scribbled innocent Blakean poems
and stared at the gorgeous brunette
who years later
became my wife.