Joseph Sigurdson

In my glasses there was churchlight
and I was ten
wondering about religion,

the solitude

of the foot stool
in half the pews,

the thin hair
of men
in front of me,
their skin
becoming earth

and bones,
the priest

asking my family
to sit

closer,

every year,

closer,

until we stopped coming.

Joseph Sigurdson’s mom thinks he’s a great poet.