Slurred Emotions

Old St. Mary's Hill

11-16-07

Every time I pass the cemetery
at the foot of old St. Mary's hill
the grass never seems to grow
and even with the passing cars
         the air remains still.
Birds circle the headstones
while I continue along,
climbing the pathway
lined by the remains
         of those who've done wrong.
And in each still-born moment
the birds sing
"Beware the souls of St. Mary's hill...
home to those who lived to be killed."

I take some pictures
before I let the scene
allow its presence to lurk
and get the best of me.
I long to find the church
in hopes of easing my pain
so that this sacred ground
doesn't have to bear my name.
Dusk is settling over all.
Do I press on or go home?
I can confess to the pastor
or make my way back down the trail
         with my sins, alone.
I go in this still-born moment
while the birds sing
"Beware the souls of St. Mary's hill...
home to those who lived to be killed."

I cut across the grave
toward the steps of the church
just as the pastor backed up
in his pale black hearse.
I said, "Father can you heal me?
Can you help me to see?
I've been wrong; I seek forgiveness."
He said, "Son, do you believe?
         Boy, do you believe in me?"
I knelt as if I were to pray
but he let me in.
He turned on the lights
and with a snort
         he said with a grin,
"Is it what you've done
of that unto yourself
         you cannot bring?"
I wept in this still-born moment
but I could still hear the birds sing
"Beware of the souls of St. Mary's hill...
home to those who lived to be killed."

I felt the warm filth of fear
as he reached and I started to run.
He cackled as I headed for the hill,
asking myself, "What have I done?"
         Oh, what have I done now?

Be not the dreaded reason.
Be not a fallen season.
Be not the cause of failure.
Be not the dreaded reason.

Hurriedly I chose not to look back
as I heard a door slam.
Illuminated by headlights,
I lost breath
         but not the holy man.
What I thought was a fence
was Old Man Cinders' monument.
He died back in '86
but why on his soul did I trip?
We used to play on his lawn as kids
'til we set it aflame.
We teased his dogs
and made fun of his name.
Bloodied and bruised,
I screamed for absolution.
The birds circled over me still-born
and I could hear them sing
"Beware the souls of St. Mary's hill...
home to those who lived to be killed."

The pastor stopped his hearse
and I thought I had a chance to live.
He helped me up, opened the door,
shoved me in and howled,
         "How I love the feeling of defeating sin!"
I could only whimper
while he hummed an old hymn.
As we made it up the hill
he sang
         "Be not the dreaded reason.
         Be not the rotten season.
         Be not the cause of failure.
         You, son, are the dreaded reason."

Every time you pass the cemetery
at Old St. Mary's hill,
the grass never seems to grow.