You've just left or turned the next corner -
Gentleman, you turned your back and walked away,
and took every step I take. I can see echoes,
the wavering winged colors, as I walk your path.
I found your church on Easter Sunday,
only two rows of pews on the tide-darkened beach,
and the cross of driftwood posted in the sand.
No walls, hymnals, candles, wine or host.
I wandered among the congregation.
They laughed and talked despite the early cold,
snow disappearing into a gray ocean,
washing the distant clifftops that form the bay,
and they said you were there last week.
You read scripture. What a fine voice
our boy has, they say. Crisp. Carries.
I began to suspect that you were an angel.
After mass, I began sharpening my knives.
I hunt angels, so I see them all the time.
Relief grew with belief. Angels are easy;
angels are imaginary: men are hard.
As I struck blade with stone on the beach,
the congregants, drinking coffee from a thermos
in performance fleece, could no longer see me.
I had killed too many of their angels.
I became a local singularity then nothing.
Now every word I spoke was an introduction.
I became proof of xenia, the scapegoat
of their compromised capacity for peripheral vision.
I felt two fingers press my shoulder.
I turned, and you were turning your back
again. But this time you left an envelope.
Snow aged your hair prematurely
as you walked away. I opened the letter.
One sheet of white paper, one symbol:
a question mark inked in black.
I stopped sharpening. I stopped everything.
You asked me the question
to which my life is the answer.
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