Bald Eagle

This Sunday was the day to eat Jesus

And drink His blood—transubstantiation of sorts or
“Holy Mystery” as the Methodists called it—but secretly
I knew it was just grape-flavored juice and tasteless wafers,
Regardless of how it was interpreted.

The old folk
Took turns in groups
Kneeling at the altar as the church organ bellowed
Amazing Grace while the pastor solemnly bestowed
The “flesh and blood” of their Savior. I quickly scanned some
Of the worshiper’s tightly closed
Eyes looking for a gleam—
Even a glimpse or contemptuous gaze—
Or any indication that someone else noticed
The absurdity of this charade.
Unfortunately, inquiry revealed that I was the lone
Youth faking my piety—destined for Hell.

The murmurs and chants
Echoed through the distant background of my distracted
Consciousness (daydreams, if you will), which never failed to save me
From the agony of organized delusion.
My avidity transported me to the barren flats at the base
Of Bald Eagle—the mountainous hill of dirt left forsaken
to gaze upon the completed construction Interstate 64.

At this point in the service,
I was two prayers, one chant,
A parting handshake with the preacher,
And a 10-minute ride home with my Grandmother
From giving every pop
Bottle and can along Barrett’s Creek
Hell with my grandfather’s 22-caliber rifle.

As I walked the cool banks of Barrett’s Creek,
Ascending toward that forsaken hill,
The reality of Paradise and the Mystery of Adventure
Crushed beneath
My feet on that well-worn path. I could still hear
The echoes of church-bells ringing
Off in the distance behind me;
I never looked back.