The Priesthood

A dormitory and a single bed, two chairs and a corner window.

Moments in solitude, time to reflect.

In the distance, the low hills.

Twenty-three weeks until the harvest and the priesthood, ploughing the fields, working the mill, the school of the soul. In between scriptures, he stacked bails and scrubbed floors in the old church. Dirty fingernails worked on him below a filthy ceiling. On his desk, a box of old notes from the chapel vaults.

And his thoughts, always the same, the conflict, the demons in his mind, a young man, his youth stolen away swiftly by the desire of his priest.

the rusting metal bar,
against the back of the chair,
will be over soon.