by Emily Stanfill
Sunday Morning 8:06 AM Preacher man pulls on his galoshes and prays to the Almighty for divine assistance in reaping all 327 lbs of Mrs. Wilson's heavenly vessel. Walking by your tin-slat church, I wonder how you'll harvest mine.
Perhaps Ghost-buster style, A man in the frock with lasers, electron hyper-rays, and a container unit. In the 4th dimension my sizzled soul would stir martinis with Slimer and waltz, waiting for Judgment.
Or I say I'm hosed into a river flowing Styx-like through the concrete nave— my soul slurping in a flood of the Spirit. Once at sea, I would speak in tongues to the crawdads, while preacher man floats by in a glass-bottomed boat, fishing me from the goats and the sheep. Praise be, preacher man— blast me, hose me, fish me, I'm ripe for paradise.
Emily Stanfill rocks the literary world with her unique and timely poetry. Currently a graduate student at BYU, she will travel exorbitant distances for a good cannoli.
