Your church is beautiful.
The stained glass shook me
as I walked in;
it was the walls of glass and color
that made it so hard.
I remember mostly blue light
coming through
and my hands were cold
from signing a page.
But it wasn’t the lack of pattern
to the glass, or the colors;
it was the black,
the jagged black lines across
that chaotic spectrum
of blue light and red Heaven
that let me grieve.
 
I am sure you were proud of the scar.
Fifty stitches is more
than a battle wound.
It must have been,
would have been a strength
like your muscles that were
maintained like the ceiling
of the Sistine Chapel—
I would’ve liked to see that scar.
Maybe you were too strong
and that is why you were never in pain;
maybe daily regimen
and lifts and presses
dulled your nerves to a sign
that could have shown you earlier.
You might have been too strong.
 
Your uncle spoke
after we listened to your song
of distorted guitars and drumbeats
and I watched your friends break down,
one by one, in the pews.
My chest feels like stained glass,
my heart is blue and red and cold
with ragged black lines—
when I look around
the only thing I see are chests
of blue and red with black;
You leave us blackened
but I am proud to be so
and I will wear the scars
you have left me,
jagged and raw,
on my right side
proudly.

By Adam Cole
Susquehanna University Class of 2002