The widow rocks on her worn-down porch
as Sister Aimee pipes Foursquare Gospel
on Saturday night. Sister has the spirit,
she makes you feel as clean as a wedding dress,
as modern as the Packard Gospel Car
she drives to her Angelus Temple
where twin broadcast towers
spiral up to heaven, beam
her Bridal Call straight to Iowa.
Tonight healing comes to the widow
with her hands flat on the set,
KFSG radio, radio, radio.
Sunday she heads past the weathered feed store
to the frame church with the boxy steeple
facing the dry landscape of foreclosure.
She clasps her hymn book, raises
her voice to the highest rafter,
Lord, end this weather, fix the tractor,
smite the mortgage. Amen.
After church, the blistered porch again,
the rocker, the paper, the personals
serving their meal of local woe,
“Golden oak dining set, must sell,”
“Bertha Jane, your mother still ill,”
“Lucas, fix the tent for Harry Joe.”
Harry Joe begs to wash your sins away,
baptizes next week, names the day:
“Only Known Photograph of Jesus: Will Show.”
