the new church

this church is full of light.
the modern
arches sailing upward,
wires holding canisters
of bright beams, hung down
from the white ceilings.
the floors are slate,
the pews long and clean
the color of sandalwood.
a stone bowl of holy water
sits glassy as you enter,
rippling as fingers
reach to touch its surface.
the new Christ is shaven,
young, fit and gleaming
on the cross above
the open altar. he appears
to be Danish now. an Olympian
at rest.
His muscular arms
are stretched out, wrists
nailed to the white
boards. no blood. no crown
of thorns. he's immaculate
in death. it's all well and good,
but you miss the dark tombs
of your youth.
the incense and latin.
the rugged cross, the stained
glass, the hard pews.
nuns and priests, in black.
you miss the ambiance of mystery
and guilt, your knees
bent, aching while your small hands
stayed folded in prayer.