Wrist Deep

My Offering

“…feeling God in a pool hall but not church—Holy.”
-Derrick Brown

In the apse of the bar, lit like an altar,
the pool table crossed over with cues,
balls striped and solid racked in rows like candles.
Damn it, I think, Someone already playing,
making my way toward the barkeep.

A woman laid out upon a bench, arms cast
down, clothes draped and tired like St. Theresa
in ecstasy, not bathed but drenched in red light
bouncing off the walls, reflecting the red felt
of the pool table. Smell of smoke. Dirty ceiling.
A place like coming home after a long trip.

I order a beer, place my name on the list
of those who came to play, who do not want
to simply sink like submarines with holes
punched through them. Pay the man.

My offering. Also my quarters, placed
in a stack on the bumper, shining. A baseball game,
pre-recorded, playing in the background;
murmurs of things that happened hours ago.

And when my turn is up I make sure the rack
is tight, Don’t mess it up now, though your nervous.
And the break. And the world shattering in a crack
that sounds like everything coming back to life,
the click happening within our bodies of things colliding.

The break, the scratch; a man, white-robed, walking
through the colonnade. The Latin. The English.
The sinker. The sinner. The End. The End.

The End. I didn’t know what it looked like until now.

It looks like a bright white dot draped in solid black.