Size / / /

(Taswell, Indiana)

Two lanes hump over sudden hills,
dip into hollows where tin-roofed shacks
teeter on the brink of a slate-bottomed creek,
skirt flat, newly-turned fields
avoiding the only safe terrain
the way rural roads often do.
The sign says CHURCH and at the top
of the hill, guarded by the granite names
of dead parishioners, it is the only piece
of architecture for miles around
neither tumbling down nor recently erected.

The bride chose this place, not the groom,
and though it does possess an air
of timelessness, it is not joyful
like the singing of spirituals or serene
like the hush of Bibles opening in unison.
A lone elm bows over the church
from years of unanswered prayers.
The inside is simply decorated:
plastic garland, white papier-mâché bells,
and tapers lining the pews
pointing up like fingers to the rafters.

The bride and groom are late.
The groomsmen struggle into black tuxedos,
puzzle over cufflinks and red cummerbunds,
debate the direction of pleats, up or down,
while bridesmaids, hair half-rolled
and nails still wet, waft in and out
of makeshift changing rooms; their green
identical dresses rustle like the bills
already inundating the father of the bride.

These ten are here to greet the invited
at the steps, usher in the infirm relatives,
accept gifts delivered without a sense
of etiquette, light tapers, unroll
the paper walkway, give the guests
something splendid to look at before
the wedding gown parades down the aisle.

The couple finally arrives in separate cars,
the groom blindfolded with a scrap of
wrapping paper as the bride is secreted away.
It begins easily enough: organ music,
the usual stroll toward the altar.
Outside, a herd of cows, piqued
by the mournful noise, wanders over
to the hill, munches the new grass bordering
the unfenced cemetery, and will not go in.

After the exchange of rings,
the bride, though vocally untrained
and overcome by ceremony,
sings flatly an obscure hymn
requested by her mother who lip-synchs
each phrase and gazes at the ceiling.
But cresting just beneath the hymn
rising from the bottom of the hill,
a sudden lowing from the cows
unhitches a melody old as rain
and excellent of voice.

 

Copyright © 2003 Mark Rudolph

Reader Comments


Mark Rudolph is the editor/publisher of the small press magazine Full Unit Hookup. His work, both poetry and fiction, has appeared in Byline Magazine, Louisville Review, Magazine of Speculative Poetry, Harpur Palate, and other places. He lives in southern Indiana with his faithful dog Monty. His previous publications in Strange Horizons can be found in our Archive. For more about him, visit his website.



Mark Rudolph lives in southern Indiana and is a '00 graduate of the Clarion Writers' Workshop at Michigan State University. His work has appeared in Lost Creek Letters, ByLine, and Magazine of Speculative Poetry, and he has work forthcoming in Electric Wine, Terra Incognita, Star*line, and other magazines.
Current Issue
3 Feb 2025

By: Mu Cao
Translated by: Hongwei Bao
too many things left unsaid/ words fold into themselves 
在沒有時間的Hotel California,Isa成為我的時間。
By: Hsin-Hui Lin
Translated by: Ye Odelia Lu
In the timeless space that is Hotel California, Isa becomes my time.
不思議な道でした。どこまで行っても闇夜。
By: Mayumi Inaba
Translated by: Yui Kajita
It was a strange road. Endless dark night no matter how far I walked.
Issue 27 Jan 2025
By: River
Issue 20 Jan 2025
Strange Horizons
By: Michelle Kulwicki
Podcast read by: Emmie Christie
Issue 13 Jan 2025
Issue 6 Jan 2025
By: Samantha Murray
Podcast read by: Jenna Hanchey
Issue 23 Dec 2024
Issue 16 Dec 2024
Issue 9 Dec 2024
Issue 2 Dec 2024
By: E.M. Linden
Podcast read by: Jenna Hanchey
Issue 25 Nov 2024
Issue 18 Nov 2024
By: Susannah Rand
Podcast read by: Claire McNerney
Load More