Going Home With the One You Came In With
In the pew in front of me, two gray heads,
backs bent forward. The woman straightens her jacket
over the bulge between shoulder blades, a ruby
rosary resting on the seat beside her. At the Peace,
they kiss like lovers they once were, but gingerly now,
practiced at it. Directly behind me someone sings
with a loud, shrill soprano. Challenging the choir, she
knows all the words, her confidence unshakable.
I wonder did I escape observation, discretely
placing my fingers in my ears.
At the back of the church, a baby gurgles,
then escalates into a wail. The priest leaves
the Holy Grail to quiet a loudspeaker gone viral.
The baby's allowed. I'm envious of a sheer
black dress a young woman wears as if
she had been born in it. There's no
Confession today. I need one. I'm in lust
over two tall dark-haired guys visiting from
a nearby high school, their tour bus
parked prominently in our lot.
Our pastor (not an Indian priest, a priest
from India, says he) shares his homily,
some syllables washed out, his accent strained
through a colander. He's Billy Graham
in liturgical dress, so passionate his preach
that despite the needy baby, the evidence
of tenuous youth, the young studs
just out of reach, he makes me believe
when my time shall come, I'll go
Home With The One I Came In With.
Copyright © Nola Perez | Year Posted 2014
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