Missionary Court

Hunched over and rocking a little, 
he answered the president in stutters, 
and I wrote it all down in the ledger— 
the girl’s name, how many times, my pen touching 
each detail, the garden, the grape trellis, 
the blanket until the whole room ached. 
Finally the recess: silence mostly, 
with the president shaking his head. 
When the elder shuffled back in, I stared 
at the locked closet filled with blue reports, 
fifteen years’ worth, faded and filed away, 
but never faded enough if you had a bad one. 
Then the president said the elder’s name, 
his first name this time, and the room 
found its breathing and seemed to relax, 
then he said church membership, and the elder 
began to moan, a low grinding cry, 
his broken shoes digging into the carpet, 
the room tightening, and I smelled sweat, 
the acidy bite of something like excrement, 
an oily scared smell that could have been 
any of us, but wasn’t, and the president hugged 
the elder breast to breast, and held him 
for a long time. After the final prayer, 
the president motioned me over: They’ll run 
sometimes, he said, or sneak out to see 
the girl again, so watch him — which I did, 
the entire night, eyes glued to his back, 
though the bile in my throat was my own.