Patrick Roland

Repurposed

Every Sunday I count exits in church.
One, two, three, and the narrow one near the children’s wing.
I point them out to my wife like I’m giving a tour
of how we might leave.
She pats my thigh, smiles, the way she did in English class
when I showed her how my belt could lock a classroom door
to thwart intruders.

I sit molding weapons in my head—
chair legs, flag poles, and even the pastor's pulpit.
The kids bring a bag of toys to their seats.
I look at the blocks, the plastic dinosaurs,
wonder which ones could be a shiv,
which could crack a skull.

Our pastor quotes Isaiah:
“They will beat their swords into plowshares,
and their spears into pruning hooks.”
He stares up, distracted by the rainbow
the stained glass scatters across the rafters.
I hear ceiling fans whir above us,
and all I can see are blades.

When I read about the most recent
fire and gunshots during worship,
I think
It could be next week, or the one after.
I listen to the doves outside our own windows,
their cooing slipping into the choir’s song,
as if they’re trying to warn us.

I wish I could believe in plowshares.
Each week I choose a different pew.

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Patrick G. Roland is a writer and educator living with cystic fibrosis. His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and appears in Rattle, Hobart, Sky Island, A-minor, Maudlin House, and elsewhere. Twitter: @pg_roland