Tonight's Poet Corner: Trinity
Trinity by Belinda Roddie In the eyes of the Father, she seems lost, confused, wavering in the middle of this holy tomb of a room, a paper thin wafer glued to her tongue, waiting to be consumed, like a body eager for some scrap of warmth. She tries to pray in the pews. Angels and saints don't stick around this place daily, though their stained glass gaze lingers like the callused fingers of sandpaper sunlight. Not like the marble, or the carved wooden seats, or the carpeting as red and pulsing as Christ's last handful of heartbeats. In the eyes of the Son, her prayers create steam out of rain, and the ark of her ancestors is dry on the bank of a river that she's never rowed. He knows that her mental rosaries are just for show - the beads evaporate in her hands. They make dents when they finally land, divots in front of the altar. The priest, in the next room, remembers not to recite the same homily from the week before. He has already heard her confess