Triptych Just before Mass
        for Franz Wright

I

We stood in the shape of an open jaw, the piano

our black tongue, and breaking out of the room's teeth
a multitude of carved horses, which is just another

way of saying I stood with my hand over my mouth

when the man wrapped in dirty blankets approached
the piano and started playing twinkle

twinkle little star.

II

Always the awe            in hacksawed.
Always the word sanctuary to shave down

like sweet lemon peels. A child broke the stained-glass
window once. The next day he left it

reassembled on the floor, as if we could look through
and see our precious saints chewing termite-rich roots.

III

Christ on the wall reminds me of the tree
the field raised after lightning burned it white

with new knowledge. If God is cold, it's because
he left the nursing home with only a few

dirty blankets and muddy socks. If God speaks,
it is in single syllables we board like boats

to reach our fathers. Yes            if God speaks,
it is a single golden O like Saturn's largest ring.

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Copyright © 2019 C. T. Salazar All rights reserved
from The Cincinnati Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission