Sleeping with the Priest in Winter George Bishop for Alan
In his house were many rooms that weren’t his, and where I woke was one. By morning God was gone, he was gone and I was where the booze had taken our holy talk. It was Sunday. It was winter. Warm air rose from the furnace, rippled through the drapes like fish in a net, like a soul struggling in a stranger’s past. When I left, I knew I’d never come back, but I’d have to. I could hear his sermon from the door as I stepped away, the one he’d been rehearsing for years, the one I’ve been trying to talk a god into ever since. ____________________
The Wayne Literary Review: Escapism
95
