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Church Going Once I am sure there is nothing going on I grab a book and step outside leaving the door open, slightly, for the cat whom I hate. It is Sunday and I will not go to church but I will kneel and pray for the daisies sprouting from the dark earth and listen to the hymns of windblown leaves and jays and sparrows— that is, unless the cat gets to them which we know it can because it has before, jumping, impossibly, onto the fence and into the trees— and I will read the word of a different lord in a wrought iron chair at the round glass table in the grass, and drink wine and eat bread and the body of an animal whose life was sacrificed for the sake of mine. Jack Carlin

19 / VLR

Profile for Virginia Literary Review

Virginia Literary Review: Spring 2017  

Virginia Literary Review: Spring 2017