Listen!
PROTESTANT MEMORY to keep myself from crying I recall my birth in the old township the fields were rich grain had poured in to church till the pews were buried and the preacher sat on top choking from the dust but still leading the singing his tenor so clear the air parted and the dead walked through the Egypt of their memory pursuing we took them into our bellies folded their voices between the leaves of our new hymnals sanctuary so welcome they stayed after for the potluck and the blessing of infants