by Sarah Law

All quiet in church for the feast
of the Sacred Heart. His statue 
 
is there, a humble Jesus,
red wound in his chest.
 
It’s Thursday night and I 
am mindful of betrayal, and
 
the loneliness of prayer. But first 
the bread and wine, and hope 
 
for those who dare receive it. One by one
the priest invites us up to light
 
our candles; slim white symbols 
of a willingness to care. 
 
Every step’s a pilgrim beat – 
the floorboards pulse in memory
 
of all his promises, love’s cor ad cor – 
and all my poor responses. 

Sarah Law lives in London and is an Associate Lecturer for the Open University. She has poems in The Windhover, St Katherine Review, America, Psaltery & Lyre, Soul-Lit, Heart of Flesh and elsewhere. Her latest collection, Thérèse: Poems is published by Paraclete Press. She edits Amethyst Review, an online journal for new writing engaging with the sacred.