After Passing the Accident

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