At the Easter vigil in St. Luke-in-the-Field,
where my friend Y was to be confirmed,
I saw for the first time in my life
more men than women in a church.
A gay-friendly church.
As in children-welcoming.
Yes, I am hostile to the Church.
It wasn’t always like this.
Two years ago, when Y was getting baptized,
the music was soft as feathers and powerful as wings,
and carried back a young man yearning to die and rise again.
No young man came up to my pew in St. Luke.
So I punished him.
How could you have loved
God who killed by water, stuffing noses, mouths and lungs?
How could you have trusted
God who saved the Jews and drowned the Egyptians,
then sided with the Christians against the Jews,
then beheaded Catholics for not being Protestants?
I did not stay for the Eucharist. I did not talk to my friend Y.
My missing young man frightens me
for I know he lurks,
perhaps round the corner of the church.
Plan for this poem-in-progress