Bible School
In the basement, beyond
the tunnels that led choir
room to knave
to shuttle the robed cherubs through,
beyond the furnace and windowless
underground classrooms and storage,
the floor became dirt and the ceiling
narrowed to crawlspace
under our china
pattern white peaked church.
A square in the wall
unbolted and hinged. A spy
hole was cut, to tell when
the coast was clear, cut
back when it mattered
a very great deal.
When we lurked there
as kids, we watched for the heels
of authority descending the stairs,
a thunderous thump,
and thought like the runaways
who squatted there trembling
in the very last nights of their trip
up toward the gourd on the underground
train. And though we admired
those bold, long-dead slaves,
we’d move on next to the long metal snake
of the heating ducts, where my buddy Ray
showed me his chops,
with makeshift drumsticks,
from rulers and chairlegs,
on the roll his percussion instructor
taught him that summer;
the frantic panic of that surfer theme Wipeout
and I na!-na!ed along as it ran through the church
making a break for it, mad to escape.
Steve Amick is a novelist living in Ann Arbor. He is the author of two novels, “Nothing But a Smile” and “The Lake, the River & the Other Lake.” His short stories have appeared in McSweeney’s, Playboy and the Southern Review. He also writes poetry.
