Sunday

Everyone is in church pews,

sitting quietly,

fingers crossed in laps of muted patterns.

No one comes in baring skin

and no one’s fingers

are dipped in gold.

There are no trumpets being blown,

no flags being raised,

no wind-swept sirens

being carried into the distance.

No barbaric shouting at the Earth

and all that is above it.

No movement at all,

save the woman in the last pew

who bounces her knee

and stares out the window.

-Lu Terlikowski

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