Sunday Service: Sarah Rose Nordgren poem
All the world’s details blur when I turn
the fan on to sleep. The little cattle
fall over on the table. The sheep wobble.
Furniture skids across the floor
like crumpled receipts. The house,
an origami box, is undone.
Confetti falls out. Flimsy, after all,
like mother said, it wasn’t expected to last.
I have no husband, no child,
no dog to feed: the faces
I put so much faith in are paper circles.
Templates of Christ, they
resemble him in the most obvious ways:
mute and tiny and light. But He is
invisible. Unfolded. Taking
His beatings with gratitude and grace.
Sarah Rose Nordgren’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Iowa Review, Pleiades, The Literary Review, Quarterly West, Cincinnati Review, Verse Daily, and the Best New Poets 2011 anthology. She is the recipient of two poetry fellowships from the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown, where she is currently in residence, and a Louis Untermeyer Tuition Scholarship from the Bread Loaf Writers Conference. She grew up in Durham, North Carolina.