When the lector reads too quickly,
and the cadence is lost in a voice
that prizes rapidity
over the rhapsodic
stillness of the psalms,
I am reminded of how far removed,
hemmed in,
my generation has become
from the humming
harmonies, conjuring
consonants, and vocal
vowels of druidic praise.
Imagine their rapture
when they deciphered
the equinox, learned
the language of birds,
and knit words into a spell
that fell from the mouth
like a sacred river.
Something is lost, I think,
as the lector declares,
“The Word of the Lord,”
and I respond,
“Thanks be to God.”
Oh, to say these words
to provoke a restless
angel in the pews.
To say these words
to rend the sport coat
of my middle-class
complicity.
To say these words
to shake the last remnants
of dead religion
from the icon
of our divinity.
