FOR PETER
TWILA NEIWERT
I go to Good Friday, you dark, solemn church service Always, I have loved how they turn down the lights let low the voices and watch quiet drift up from the floorboards through pews I sit on the long bench hearing silence gather at my feet hearing heavy rain and the soft shuffle of a person three pews over, lost in the dark. Candles extinguished, It becomes difficult, I sit while the bell tolls, bowed head, I think about Peter, headstrong apostle. I thought you foolish, when I was little, I thought you a coward for turning your face away, for being unsure, and now, I am sorry. Go, Peter, step out. Go walk on the water. I would fear the sinking, too.
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