Under a Presbyterian Steeple

On Easter Sunday

steel bars like loaves of stale bread

split stone benches down

the center. There’s no rest

for the wicked, tired

or little Myrtle and her spider

veins. The Flock—with black nylon spider

legs—files cathedral-wise behind her. See their Sunday

dresses! Myrtle preaches, tired

from all-night quests for bread.

She eats the crust and saves the rest

for her sick little pup down

on the bench beside her. You’ve been down

all night she whispers through the spider’s

web of steel mesh where her sick pup rests

in the kennel by her legs. The Sunday

People watch her feed stale bread

through the meshing—so tired

of Myrtle and her sick little pup, tired

to the bone of her sittin’ down

askin’ for a dollar, a nickel, some bread

like a spindling, mist-eyed spider

hanging in the belfry all Sunday,

munching dog-flies, cankerworms, whatever rests

against her web. Can’t she give it a rest?

They buzz from ear to ear, eager to retire

to their pews. Today’s not just Sunday.

Today He goes up, someday He’ll come down—

He’ll descend a Silver Line like a Mighty Spider.

Save Us who broke bread—

one body, one bread—

then, Lord, slay the rest!

Now Myrtle cries, clears bone-dry spiders

from her empty kennel, scratching air with tired

fingers. Eight tears turn down

her cheeks. They gather dust, while Sunday

bells toll and clang a tired

sermon across the city, down

into the streets on Good Sunday.