I don’t know if the consecrated hall is
crowded with conifer smoke
or if the Vaseline I put on this morning has smudged
the tops of my glasses’ thick
lenses enough to produce a milky smog veil
over the heads of the congregation.
I look to my left into the eyes of a small boy
who has stopped beside this pew
in line for his communion. I’d bet he thinks it’s real
wine. His navy tartan shirt is tainted
with Cheeto dust and god knows what else.
He smells like Irish Spring and lots of it.
I offer him an agnostic smile. My skirt rode up
when I sat down, the oak bench cold
on my bare ass. I wait for the boy
to pass to adjust.
Clasped hands breeze by to the back of the church
their owners still
chewing the body, red and bulging
knuckles bred from decades old wedding bands
constricting still like hog feet tied together.
I hear the new generation of Catholics crying
with colic in awe of the choir. My niece
with her new hair and fuzzy limbs
has a wardrobe change at the end of the mass,
her bowed white shoes that will never touch
the floors are waiting
atop the cracked vinyl
of the kneeler and the pocket hanky bonnet
is ready to be tied.
O
Only Here for My Niece’s Christening
