The
Elk's Blessing
by Harold Rhenisch
although in books they were both the same.
Back then, even God was in a book. Even
in marriage with daffodils, dark pews,
and the priest in sandals we said I do,
in sickness and in health. The priest —
if you could call him that (He was soon
to be expelled) — said it first. He read it
from a book, bound in black, the skin of a calf,
and we repeated it. There was room left
for our names. The priest talked,
a little embarrassed at having
to give his blessing when there is little
blessing he could give, his voice hushed. He said
the universe, vast space, and God,
said an intelligence in a leaf, a stone,
a drop of water lifted from the river
and watched drop, while the organist
ran through the notes again
to see if she had gotten them right.
She hadn’t. Across town, the Ladies
of the Royal Purple were washing spuds.
That much he said with the book closed.
Then the daffodils, the suits, the black
shoes from Chinatown, painted white.
At the end, a kiss, two signatures
in a book, and we were off
to a world of books. But first the roast,
the spuds, the wine, the speech, and the elk
staring down at us from the panelled wall.
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