The Church at Taos | Alex Stanley

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2 mins read

Every artist that has come through this town has painted
this warbled church, made to look like the rock formations
in the distance, made to look like God. I am lousy at anything but words,
yet even my descriptions end at God. It is a weekday morning.
I smell from a week of hiking and camping, wearing my dusty boots,
sweatpants, and a camouflage coat. There is no one inside. I sit
in a middle pew, the hard wood reminding me of days in Catholic school.
I look to the vigas holding the roof, which seem as if they were cut hundreds of years ago.
The crucifix and figures look like they were carved by Geppetto.
I pray, having left God. I pray for my ancestors that never did. I pray to be one.
I pray for this never to end. I pray for an imagination as boundless as this feeling.
A voice in my head sounds like my own: “What took you this long?
Why ruin? Why desire? Your life was already eternal.”
I do not have answers, only experience, experience that has carved missing pieces into me.
When I have exhausted prayer, words for no person to hear, I text my mother
to tell her I am headed home. I will be there in a day’s time. I will find you again.


Alex Stanley was born and raised in Arizona. He earned a BA in English from Boston College and an MFA in Creative Writing at the University of California, Irvine.