Homily: A Surrealistic Prose Poem

We sit for the sermon. The padre does / his thing, speechifying about some part / of life we may have neglected — say, husbands / and wives, the plight of the poor, the art / of true forgiveness — and I try to pay / attention, but as soon as the word soul / echoes down the pews, my soul is a gray / cat, slinking through the underbrush, the whole / litany of doubt. Soul? What do you know / that every living thing doesn’t know? How / do you presume? My soul is fire, I go / where the forest winds go, my soul is now / a wave, now a particle, it’s immune / to metaphor, it’s hypoallergenic, / a fish too small for your net, the moon / on Brighton Beach, a pig beyond your pen.

© Michael Fleming

Dummerston, Vermont

July 19, 2022