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.