Brianna L. Noll
The bell went first—
its left side unhinged, clanged
irreverently; the steeple
began to tilt, then crumble.
Shingles slid from the roof,
siding peeled.
Parishioners held a vigil,
circled the church. But even as
human buttresses, we could not keep
stained glass windows from shattering,
the pipe organ from bending down
so low it moaned.
You clenched the brown cloth of the scapular
about your neck, its medals draped front and back;
the rosary's cross slipped from my hand, the beads
still wound around my wrist and forefinger.
It dangled there, a witness, flitting in the glow
of the luminaries.