At St. Nicholas', A Poem

I can remember the smell of incense,
and the strike of oils cast
from the censer of the Orthodox priest
as he would turn and face us
during the celebration of the Liturgy of St. John.

I can remember the icon
of Mary and the infant Christ
painted in the dome in such a way
so that I as a child
knew that the Christ-child saw
and condemned thought and deed
from His perch above the gathered.

I spent hour upon hour in the Church
of St. Nicholas -- after whom I am named --
standing in the fore of the wooden pews,
watching the priest and his acolytes
performing rituals centuries old.

My Grandfather stood near the altar,
Father and Uncles on either side of me
and still drunk from a night of hard drinking;
still drunk from a night of hard fighting.

The Elder Gods of our Hellenic Community,
those who had left Greece for America before all others,
stood to the right of the altar,
separated from their families by their roles as patriarchs.

I would stand between my Father and his brothers,
Young Gods still smelling of ouzo and of beer,
of cigarettes and of the perfume
of the women who seemed to congregate
around these local heroes of the Good War.

I would stand between my Father and his brothers,
smelling the stale sweat of fighting on them,
smelling the stale musk of sex upon them,
and wondering how the watching Christ-child felt
about these drunken, broken soldiers standing before him,
stinking of the flesh, yet mindful of the spirit.

I would stand with my father, sneak my small hand
into the pocket formed by his scarred fingers
and his calloused palm.

My still drunk father would smile down at me,
squeeze my hand and whisper in Greek,
"Poli kala, Nikos, poli kala."

And I stand before St. Nicholas' now,
which is Baptist instead of Orthodox;
and I stand before St. Nicholas' now,
with my Father and my Uncles buried,
one and all,
and I wonder if it is as my Father said.

I wonder if all is "very good,"
if all ever was "very good,"
and I wonder if "very good" is only possible
through a fog of alcohol, violence and sex
for men who have been broken
by heartache and the ravages of war.