Feed me something that sticks
to my ribs; fills my belly.
Pour me a cup that’ll buckle my knees.
Let me hear shouts of Jesus
among the wooden pews.
I want to flatfoot to a fiddle tune,
boots scraping a raw plank floor.
Daintiness is for tatting doilies.
Utter me verses blunt and thick,
rough as a cob. My house is the one
where my grandfather entered the world,
made of chopped-down timber, daubed mud,
a stone and mortar hearth. It’s where I first
look for rudimentary comfort and warmth,
to find the treasure I was promised
lies buried somewhere beneath.
O child of God, there are as many paths to God
as there are souls in the universe.