Little Red Church

After six surgeries, I stumble over the church’s threshold for the first time in years. How to explain this reborn need? I have wandered cathedrals, their great reaching arches only stones; through the reliquary glass I saw only fingerbones, only fragments. What am I doing here? I can’t eat the bread. My failing digestive system blinks at me. But there is talk of a barn-born child, hope. Once I hoped to be healthy, reborn. How are arches built? One stone, then another. After six surgeries I need something: God? I am putting myself together, fragment by fragment. Fingerbone by fingerbone.