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A Magazine for

Hymn

It’s one of those days where you’ve found God, finally.
You’ve been heathen for weeks

but now your body—
its bumpy legs, its fingers gripping the kettle

—now your voice, its own animal, belting out
Aretha in the garden that you’re lucky to have

—now your mood, reflecting off red brick terraces,
and painting the pavement in light

have brought you in under the wing of religion.

It’s one of those days where God’s right here,
not bearded or sandaled, not a bloke in a robe,

just your body, walking uphill to the park.

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