Cathedrals,” Karen Lulich Horwath

Karen Lulich Horwath

Priests tell us God’s house is in a cathedral; To enter, one must dip a hand In holy water, touch the sponge lightly, Cross one’s forehead. In this house the air is cool And dank like a crypt anointed with chrism. This is where I was taught to pray the psalms By nuns in flowing white robes, Big rosaries looped around their waists Like chains, My hands clenched firmly together, Stiff fingers pointing my way to heaven.

Yet, birds tell me God’s house is in the air; Catching drafts and eddies, They swoop freely across the sky, Wings spread fully. And fish tell me it is in the sea; Flicking fins, they shimmer, Gliding smoothly through silken waters, Eyes bulging in wonder.

I admit I find the cathedral of the Sun To be all the space I need to feel something holy— That and clean dirt where I kneel Each spring to plant my garden, The heat on my skin blessing my cells, Light sliding in through my retinas, Every part of me dilating open Until even my palms pulse with pleasure Plunged deep into the rich dark soil.