Beneath the Cedars

Beneath the Cedars

by

Matt McGuire

In the name of the Father
I wore brown cavalry
leather
cross my back--
chastising
husband of my
heart.
I bore his stripes--
purple hearts,
bronze star
a sergeant
Anzio,
Normandy,
and Germans in the
hedgerows.
John Wayne
on Sundays
he sat nursing
a pint of Old Tig,
his eyes glazed
with violence.
I knew what was coming
at the end of the show
another beating,
grab your ankles
for Daddy make my thirst
flee--
my bowels a
Lake of Fire.

In the name of the Son,
I studied gospels
while grinding
machine parts at Goodwin's.
My King James
propped against my
slender lunch pail.
I lost a finger
round 2nd Peter,
determined
to become a prophet
and make Father proud.
Honorable scars,
just like Bastogne,
I carried them outside and
in
my torn boyhood.

In the name of the Holy
Ghost of
my Father,
I, the Son
trudge onward
soldiering alone.
A priest of St. Calvin,
gentle lamb,
shepherd's vineyard.
A small country church way back
in Grim Bethel
built of shiplap and cedar,
my weathered King James resting
atop a dark altar.
I swore by all that's right
and righteous not to damn my sons
or daughters to perdition,
no more ankles
or John Wayne
on Sundays
with Old Tig.
So I did it with
chicken wire
and a razor from Goodwin's,
my own secret penance
a temptress
to sin.
I sewed it myself,
and laid in for weeks,
sterile gauze,
prayer,
and patience--
three jewels in my crown.
Nevermore and Amen
to the seventh generation,
my curse
laid to rest.
Resurrection awaits
'neath a cedar
in Grim Bethel.