The Chapel Matron
by Jan Wiezorek
Those flying over vistas hold onto whatever
wings they have—like a Reflection Chapel,
where I follow airport’s arrow down a hall.
Not this way, the matron admonishes. I tell
her, I want to visit the chapel. She motions,
and I follow her steps. She smiles to maids
and attendants, the uniformed and familiar.
It’s not what you think, she says, her broken,
red lids opening like speech. A weight upon
us hums inside the elevator, vibrating
against her white-wear. Everyone wants
to use my toilet, as if it’s the only one here,
she says, I being a nuisance whose act—
what could it have been?—repeats in her
syllables. The doors open, and we enter
a near-empty room: carpeted, an icon, two
chairs, four cardinal directions, a shawl.
Will you escort me back? I ask. No, but you
will be on camera in the room and hallways.
Jan Wiezorek writes from Buchanan, Michigan. His chapbooks, Prayer’s Prairie (Michigan Writers Cooperative Press) and Forests of Woundedness (Seven Kitchens Press), are forthcoming this year. Wiezorek’s work has appeared in The London Magazine, The Westchester Review, BlazeVOX, Vita Poetica, and elsewhere. Visit janwiezorek.substack.com.
