Vanessa Ogle

POETRY

“Worship,” read by Vanessa Ogle.

Worship

I still taste it, the mothers who acted as our own, their snaps electric,
the meat of it, thumbs a slap,

and we’d sit, we’d sit, pretend to listen, mouth the words to the hymns
that take my breath away when I hear them now, nerves

my gut—(this is how you get ulcers)—
the pastor’s daughter crying all the way through “The Old Rugged Cross.”

Prayer circle: everyone touch someone;
cracked palms on clammy necks, children clutching their father’s

pantleg, the pastor crying. His father’s name was Elvis.
(The secular-and-the-sacred laps my brain like a wave.)

Outside was a Styrofoam lighthouse for a kind man’s late-wife.
Both are gone now.

The pastor is dead. Elvis is dead. It was not that many years ago.
They moved the parsonage to a vacant lot so they could expand

the parking lot. No one came but we came back—nowhere else did it feel
like Easter.

All those orange pew cushions!
Does it matter if it was wine or grape juice? How many hours did I spend

looking at him? How many times did I see him cry?
He thought touch could heal you, so why did a man of

God always weep?

“Jesus Slept.” read by Vanessa Ogle.

Jesus Slept.

My nose, wedged, is under the crack
in the door.

Hands clasped
together

all night, as stars rotated, shifting, dying,

even my dreams were prayers.

My mother is dying
and all I remember is her

skin tag, floppy flesh pink, fragile as a face.

I’m looking for anything to make me fall

to my knees.Even loneliness

created its cocoon. Now I feel nothing.

Every church seems to love Styrofoam,

sculptures & coffee cups
that never decompose,

pieces more like dandruff than snow.

I brought a Rugrats doll once into a Nazarene pew:
Tommy spoke: “I need a nap.”

My prayers
mumbled 0-7 times
daily.

One second of eternity can be
a hundred years

on Earth

so maybe this is only a nap.

Can you wake up?
Let me feel tingles in the back of my brain.

Remember as a child laying your soul bare?

Quantifying every-thing/one,
this or that in long car rides when cornfields

passed like ladders.

My friend asked of a boy I’ve now forgotten: Would you rather
be with him forever or no one?

Please.

Hear my cold-nosed whimpers.

I lie bellydown waiting for the door

to open so I can feel

even one dropof light

Vanessa Ogle is a poet, writer, and educator. Her work has appeared in national and international publications, including most recently in the New York Times and The Nation. She received her MFA from Hunter College in 2020. She lives in Brooklyn, New York.

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