by Johnna Ryan

Often as I sit  
in sacred sanctuaries and  
stare up at scripture on screens projected—  
I forget to bring my source  
to the land of cushioned metal chairs  
and read from my own scribbled-surrounded  
text alongside the lesson of the week.  

In my frenzied flash from home and  
grabbing of keys and purse and phone  
often overshadows  
the retrieval of the book, wrapped in blue fabric and waiting 
(probably on my desk?)  
but left forgotten until arrival.  

But then there are my woe-some days—  
when in my flight from home  
my eyes do graze the glossary of the Spirit and 
I flurry away anyway,  
too tired to fulfill the words of grace; 
off to the hallowed halls of sanctuary servitude  
and only there do I sigh and shrug with shame. 

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Johnna Ryan is a poet and writer studying English at Palm Beach Atlantic University, and her writing has appeared in Living Waters Review and Westmarch Literary Journal. She can often be found in the wild, either at coffee shops sampling outlandish teas, or loitering at her local library.