They Have Closed the Church My Father Helped Build

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where he sawed through his finger 
now perpetually stiff, 
paid three assessments 

where the dedicatory prayer droned on 
past limits of steeple, lighthouse green, 
and the subflooring I played on 

where he sat on the rostrum, 
jaw-bone moving in his temples, 
stood to conduct 

where I slipped leftover sacrament bread 
into my purse 
with the taste of perfume 

where our teen pew got giggles 
we couldn’t control 
during prayer or a farmer sermon 

where a mural of Christ 
and fishermen with bulging nets hung, 
our white church full, empty, 

the Lainhart boy’s casket 
muffling the aisle, 
the congregation wondering 

where it all led.