by L. Teresa Church

Neither called, nor sent,

the kind that just went

hat and hymnal in hand,

 

my make-believe pulpit

a chair, porch rail,

bedroom dresser top,

 

anywhere Gran sat,

listened to sing-song

sermons I preached

 

over dead frogs, mice,

grasshoppers, houseflies,

some killed by me,

 

just so I could lead

dusty evening marches

for souls laid to rest

 

in pickle jars, under weeds,

wild roses, daisies, dandelions

that topped their red-clay tombs

 

gouged into slope bank

along the road that lead

me to other callings.