Thank You for Coming to the 8pm Eucharist

Thank You for Coming to the 8pm Eucharist
Sam Bailey

I know you trekked a hell of an earth to get here, 

I know lightning bugs trail you even now, know your ghost

waits right outside these doors, know in your spine, you 

feel altitudes, know wolf meat attaches your bones, know

you touched the steering wheel tenderly as you could, as your 

father would, know the pews here stink like wood is rotting, know 

the windows freak you out, know the ceiling 

flies over us, know the darkness does business, with itself, know 

in the Scripture today, the First Christian Vampire says 

all the natural stuff, all the stuff you need to partake, and know 

you need He Who had the Empire of Death to partake, that is, 

to say, the Devil. Always know the Devil. Know how to wait 

for Mars. Know stars are like East Coast buoys groaning 

in a silence far off from a moon they forget they know. Forget 

the lobsters climbing around beneath all that. Forget the boat 

that will come with the seagulls circling in a blur like a blender. Forget 

all your seven neighbors sitting here with you tonight, residents of Tiffin 

County, Ghosts to the East Coast, Pen Pals of Mercury, 

the 9th Century, and God’s other remote zones. Remember 

these zones. Remember yourself nude for 10 seconds. Remember the body

in love. Remember how you unfolded your khakis. Remember the coffee 

on the dresser. Remember the height of its steam. Remember the news 

despising itself from down the hallway somewhere, remember

this was not your house. Remember those were not your blankets

and the wall’s light vivid like a yes, then a no. Remember the smile, 

the teeth like burning buildings, or right before they burned. Remember

you didn’t even shower. You stunk. Remember

it was Monday and work from here was only a mile down Main Street

but you had to go home first to get your bridle, your saddle. The hat too. 

Phoebe, the horse, would be upset. She was. 

Her black hair gleaming like wine as you walked forward with the reins.


Sam Bailey is from central Pennsylvania. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Yale Review, The Drift, Best New Poets, Image, The Missouri Review, The Adroit Journal, Colorado Review, and elsewhere. He is a PhD candidate at Harvard, an Associate Editor at Peripheries, and the Co-Editor in Chief of Mark.

Sam Bailey

Sam Bailey is from central Pennsylvania. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Yale Review, The Drift, Best New Poets, Image, The Missouri Review, The Adroit Journal, Colorado Review, and elsewhere. He is a PhD candidate at Harvard, an Associate Editor at Peripheries, and the Co-Editor in Chief of Mark.

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