Poetry: Music

 You come in late on purpose, long enoughthat the ushers have taken their seats, sitin the back so only the most devout turnto see. You’re uncomfortable, not justbecause the pews are harder than youremember, but because you do rememberthat you were never comfortable, here,and whatever you thought was familiarwas a memory of something that neverhappened. An old man talks. He caresmore about the evils of the worldthan you have ever cared for the good.People cough, fidget. You begin to understandthat they are not comfortable, either,but they stay, and so do you, this one time.Your mother felt something, here. Maybe youcould feel something of her, but your worryis that it was only fear or habit or a chanceto get out of the house. The man is workinghimself into a passion about sin, about his fearthat the world is moving away from him,and you realize, sitting there, a thirdof your body numb, that you’d never consideredthe movements of the world to be anythingother than music, a concerto to be listened to,feared, affected by, but not one that can bealtered; only the way in which you listencan change. Now, they sing, and you feel the endcoming. You stumble for the door, beforetheir curious hands can find yours, their mouthsasking if you’ll be back next Sunday.____CL Bledsoe is the author of a dozen books, most recently the poetry collection Riceland and the novel Man of Clay. He lives in northern Virginia with his daughter.