amy gerstler

A Non-Christian on Sunday

Now we heathens have the town to ourselves.
We lie around, munching award winning pickles
and hunks of coarse seeded bread smeared
with soft, sweet cheese. The streets seem
evacuated, as if Godzilla had been sighted
on the horizon kicking down skyscrapers
and flattening cabs. Only two people
are lined up to see a popular movie
in which the good guy and the bad guy trade
faces. Churches burst into song. Trees wish
for a big wind. Burnt bacon and domestic tension
scent the air. So do whiffs of lawnmower exhaust
mixed with the colorless blood of clipped hedges.
For whatever’s about to come crashing down
on our heads, be it bliss-filled or heinous,
make us grateful, OK? Hints of the savior’s
flavour buzz on our tongues, like crumbs
of a sleeping pill shaped like a snowflake.