Two Sundays ago I joined regular churchgoers
reluctant children and sunlight streaming
through stained glass windows, Saint Cecilia
and Saint Dorothea, my yearly pilgrimage
in this salvaged boat built for Episcopalians
halfway between the bay and the breaking waves
Fishermen, lean and tanned, lift prayers
and deep sea voices instead of anchors and
crab pots while the women, the widows,
the lifelong islanders wearing sandals,
church shoes, summery casual clothes,
rhinestone jewelry from another century
stand, sit, sing, kneel, chanting the names
of those in need and those serving in the military.
The organist is young, flamboyant;
the ushers and vicar are not, but here
with familiar prayers, unfamiliar hymns,
The Book of Common Prayer,
Holy Communion by intinction,
church on an island off the coast of New Jersey
My heart, my head, my soul washed clean
washed clear like the sound of breaking
Amen.
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