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POETRY

Sundays

After everyone has left, I linger like a woman waiting
for a miracle. If there is holiness in these mornings,
the singing and the wine and the prayer, then wandering
the pews after-hours, footsteps echoing, must be doubly
holy. I look for visions in the floorboard cracks —
where have the prophets gone? what caves hide here?
My heart beats against its bones like a bird trapped
in the sanctuary. But it’s beautiful, the way the light finds
its way in. This faith I cling to, slanted as a shipwreck,
grief-stricken as an organ’s first groaning chord.
I crawl underneath the pews to look up at the rafters
and the flitting of the sparrow. Fragile bird-bones, so loved
by God. I believe this. I must have faith God knows
where I’m hiding, and waits one row over for me
to emerge.

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Emma McCoy has two poetry books: This Voice Has an Echo (2024) and In Case I Live Forever (2022). She’s been published in places like Stirring Literary and Thimble Mag, and reads for Chestnut Review. She also writes for Viewpoint Magazine. Catch her on Substack: https://poetrybyemma.substack.com/

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Image: “Church pews, Old Brick Church, Mooresville, AL,” image by Marjorie Kaufman, CC BY-SA 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons.