Salvation by Matt Dennison

He could stand it no longer, had almost
crushed his one Sunday hat in his hands,
crushed his desire to stand and dissent.
Salvation was good and fine, he was
all for it, but this was too much. He saw
the stiff women gazing at the new
boy-preacher from Boston, nodding their
heads in blessed agreement, their smiles
relaxing into masks of final, redemptive
victory. Hell, didn’t he drive his old
buggy a good seven miles to make
church? He, a full-grown man with
a ranch but—thank God—no wife
of his own? And for what? To hear
some wet-eared boy from Back East
rail against that which had elevated his
thoughts many a time and many times higher
than contemplating the next church social
with its gaggle of man-hungry women?
Why, this boy-preacher was no better than
your average woman! Had obviously never
spent a winter’s night coaxing life from
some suffering beast, to say nothing
of partaking of that which he berated
as the common cause of all sin.

He slowly stood, unfolded his lanky frame
until he towered above the rest of the flock.
Heads turned. Women whispered.
As the boy-preacher’s beady eyes widened
behind rimless spectacles, he remembered
how these dried-up creatures had run
Reverend Hanes out of town as reward
for his one moment of fleshly weakness—
as if any man could resist Ada Parkins
in her silk nightgown. He looked at the hat
in his hands, the brim rolled into a sweat-
stained mess, and thought of his mare
in need of a little matrimonial salvation
in regard to the shy stallion in the far field.
He had seen salvation at work, had held it
in his hands; had fought for the salvation
of man and beast alike. The salvation
of life, here, now, in which Eternity
played no part, did not matter in the least
when the life of a prize bull or a snake-bit man
hung in the balance of your earthly hands.
Before sanctity, beyond politeness.
More important than bonnets, better
than hymns. Life!

He studied the stain-glass windows, the flat
white ceiling that he had painted, and thought
of the cattle, wild horses and the hard, unforgiving
skies of his ranch. “Brother Simpson, have you
something to add?” The Bostonian was speaking
to him. Had he something to say? Something
that would be understood by the women,
backed up by the men? “No,”
he stammered, looking at his hat. “No,”
he muttered as he marched up the aisle
he would never walk down.
Outside, he saw the great day,
full of life, color, and—for a while yet—
the clean, wide-open feeling of freedom.
He breathed hard, turned and straight-armed
the door, oblivious to the faces that lifted to his.
Why, then,” he thundered, “if the Devil be drink,
are my best prayers drunk!”

# # #

After a rather extended and varied second childhood in New Orleans, Matt Dennison’s work has appeared in Rattle, Bayou Magazine, Redivider, Natural Bridge, The Spoon River Poetry Review and Cider Press Review, among others. He has also made short films with Michael Dickes, Swoon, and Marie Craven. 

Photo: João Silas

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