Holding Hands (Under Instruction) With a Man at Church

There is a glance,

A knowing glance,

Between us.

It is not friendship,

Or even the fellowship in the suffering,

Of fellow Englishmen,

Just an acknowledgement,

That this is for the cause,

His hand is extended,

As, simultaneously, his face is retracted,

The north face of the mountain,

Taking its reluctant turn in the sun,

Taking its leave of where the wind blows,

Where the shadows fall,

Where I stand,

His hands are a good size,

Strong and confident,

His skin not as rough as it could be,

An office job for an outdoor type,

He applies enough pressure,

To let me know: He does not shy away from this,

But not so much as to convey any other meaning,

Neither competition nor compassion.

He simply holds my hand.

It is impossible to simply hold another man's hand,

Without a certain amount of thought,

I think he gives this just the right amount of thought,

He wouldn't want to give me too much thought,

Any more than he would want to apply too much pressure,

As I hold his hand,

The words of the prayer for which we are now connected,

Blend into other white noises,

And I begin to think,

(Perhaps it's not always wise to think)

This hand has done so much,

It has drafted letters of promotion,

Wiped the bottoms of children,

Been held in exchange of rings, at the altar,

Caressed breasts,

Of wife and lovers,

Been clasped,

In Prayer,

Held out begging for mercy,

Stroked tears from his son's cheeks

Formed into awkward arches,

In music,

In worship,

Picked up stones to throw,

Applied plasters,

Picked flowers,

Parted thighs,

Held new born babies,

And now,

It holds mine,

The judgement I'd felt initially,

Starts to subside,

And I feel a surge of merciful warmth for him,

With which to temper the judgement,

I don't think he likes me much.

He is my brother.

And this,

Is church.

(A poem I wrote maybe about 2012, but I have no record of when)
M. Joseph Burt