Uppsala Cathedral ‘92

I.

I have no faith, yet
in this foreign church
I find solace,
sanctuary.

I never expected
to need such a place,
but I sought it out.

A stranger to its ways,
I sit in silence, alone,
under its cloud-scratch steeples.

Its echoing ambience
embraces me.
City noise and bluster muted;
muffled by centuries-old stone.

It welcomes and warms.

II.

A refuge discovered,
I rest:
no more voices.

I can breathe here.
I can be here.

The sweet scent of smoke
and slow-melting wax
balms and calms my quiet chaos;

soothes (for a moment)
and gives me whispered hope:

Be patient.
You will get home,
just not today.

III.

Feeling fraudulent,
self-conscious at
stealing sacred ceremonies
for my own secular ends,

I light a candle
and I grieve for you.

I say no prayers, of course.
Though, contradictory as always,
I wish someone might pray for me.

Soon, I will go home;
travel the thousand miles back
from this cathedral city
to make sense of the gouged-out scars
you’ve left behind.

For now, though, I stay.
Stuck fast in unintended exile.

Expelled by you -
at one remove -
from an artificial Eden
of my own creation;

from a future Paradise never-to-be-Found
let alone Lost again.
A foolish construction of my mind,
now razed.

IV.

As I watch the candle flame
– one among many -
brightly dance in this dim, ancient space

I wonder where you are right now;
and what you are doing;
and who you are with.

You live your own life without me
(your letters make this very clear).

But in some faraway northern church
would you light a candle for me?

I pause, unsure:

is that a mere straightforward question,
or a pitiful, pathetic plea?

Even in this healing place,
these new wounds still hurt like Hell.

A&E

This is the house