The Pressed Stem

I pulled it from a box of rusted tools,

a blue brick of paper and glue.

It feels heavier than the laws or the rules

we used to pretend we knew.

Inside the cover, a carnation lies flat,

a brown ghost of a funeral three years dead.

It left a stain right where the choir sat

and sang about the spirit and the bread.

Gold leaf flecks onto my calloused thumb,

a cheap glitter from a holy place.

I hold the volume until my wrist goes numb,

staring at the dust on the Savior’s face.