Gospel Truth

Snot-faced, disheveled,

He fidgets between the church pews

And pulls on his mother's skirts

She stills him with a sharp word

But clasps his hand in hers, as the pastor reads a verse 

He can't see the eyes piercing her skin

The uncertainty brimming within 

But propped on her hip

He knows only the soft song of her lips

as worship 

And heaven, the little nook in her chest

where he lays his head.