Sunday sonnet

After the praying, after the hymn-singing,
After the sermon’s trenchant commentary
On the world’s ills, which make ours secondary,
After communion, after the hand-wringing,
And after peace descends upon us, bringing
Our eyes up to regard the sanctuary
And how the light swords through it, and how, scary
In their sheer numbers, motes of dust ride, clinging –
There is, as doctors say about some pain,
Discomfort knowing that despite your prayers,
Your listening and rejoicing, your small part
In this communal stab at coming clean,
There is one stubborn remnant of your cares
Intact. There is still murder in your heart.

Mark Jarman, Unholy Sonnets

I love this poem. I particularly admire how the word motes floats right into the middle of the meditation, suspended in its own clause, as the worshipper looks up and see a terrifying number of dust motes in the light that "swords through" the sanctuary - and by the way, you do often see a tremendous number of motes in the colored light coming through stained glass windows, don't you?

I also love how the "communal stab at coming clean" plays off the idea of those swords of illumination.

And, of course, there is that last sentence.