The mood at the Presbytery meeting
is a mixture of anxiety,
confusion, and suspicion.
Attempts at jocularity
have little effect on the proceedings.
One or two offer weak smiles in
response.
Cheeks aglow, a woman stands to
report on unlikely love
in all the wrong places.
Faint hope stirs in the pews.
A booming voice praises the institution.
The compliments wedge themselves into the situation,
like a woman attempting to squeeze her feet
into shoes two sizes too small.
On the stage,
positions are assumed.
(The missionary position is favoured)
A thin civility
brackets the opinions.
Screams have long since been
deemed uncivilized.
It has not been announced,
but permission to speak has
secretly been denied.
Principalities and powers suck the movement
Backward,
Downward.
The votes are cast.
Some win, some lose.
All go home empty-hearted.
