Originally posted 10/22/2015; revised, 4/2016; revised again, 5/8/2016.

I should burn this church
without mourning.
I light it, but I cannot smile while I do.

I have seen too often how much
of the holy I know was made by devils
that nothing’s shining now under the sun.

Felled trees row upon row,
and no one seems
to have heard a thing.

I should have known.
Should have been listening all along
for the sound of clear cutting.

Evil disguised itself
as birdsong and brook,
as hymns to the betrayed sun.

All the holy I know is devils’ work,
and it falls upon me now
with a roar like a deadfall.

I’m sorry, but I do mourn its passing
a little. I mourn it as it falls upon me.
I’m sorry for mourning,

but I do, even as I see
the need for this reckoning,
even as I join in a call for it.

Once-honored voices
have failed so miserably
at living professed truth

yet they are part of what I am, 
as is now my disgust 
at how I have loved them; 

as is my confusion 
at how can still I love them
knowing what I know.

I am problematic
as a result
of this imperfection;

unlovable,
confused,
on fire.