The most sacred place I’ve ever been
is a dirt floored
mission church
in Acoma, New Mexico.

The men who built it in 1709
carried the logs for the roof
for thirty five miles on their shoulders
and never let one of them touch the ground.

I am not
the only one
who cries
upon hearing this.

The churchyard and its audience of
blacktipped crosses
look into the doorway
from the August heat,

into the church that has only
three windows
and still holds more light
than all of the valley beyond.

I have been here before.
I have been here since the first time I came.
I may have been here before that.
I am surely here, now.

The pillars of the altar are red and white, like me.
The guide tells us that there’s no conflict here
between Christ and the corn.
I am beginning to believe…

so however I may speak
of God tomorrow,
I am kneeling under the cross
on this solid earth tonight.