Waiting

In a candlelit church

at night

the air is thin;

each breath rises

from a deeper place.

Crickets drone outside

as a peregrine breeze

disturbs a candle.

Monks in white robes

ease into silence and darkness.

A man is sequestered

in his solitude

out of range of candlelight.

A woman clutches

a small swaddled body

to her chest.

Seated in our chairs,

spines are erect,

feet are flat on the floor.

Sounds emerge

like nocturnal animals

looking for prey.

They awaken me

from a stupor.

They are so strange,

so near and irregular

as if to test their voice.

I look around the room

to see it dancing with light.

Perhaps the flame

will steady itself

or my tongue will lisp

prayers, petitions, pleadings.

With the light,

the mother rocks and bounces

her child as if to quiet her

but the child is not deterred

by her or language,

calling on everything intangible.

I know this child

bright-eyed,

reaching out her stubby fingers

to noses, ears, lips

pulling anyone to her

who will make faces.

She is a beautiful child

like all babies who draw people.

But on this night,

she invokes

what I expect so much

and believe so little.

JOHN FORBIS*

* John Forbis of the Order of the Holy Cross in an Anglican Benedictine monk who lives in Grahamstown, South Africa.

Copyright Anglican Theological Review, Inc. Summer 2004
Provided by ProQuest Information and Learning Company. All rights Reserved