The First Time

The first time you loved a girl, her hair was the gold rosary from your Polish grandmother. Her blue eyes were reflected in the stained glass windows that judged you for your desires. You couldn’t look at her hands. They were small, round nails like the preachers hands, and every time she touched you, you imagined him holding the glass of sacramental wine to your lips. The first time you loved a girl, She sat next to you in church. She made you pray for forgiveness for sins you hadn’t committed yet. It was her hips that did it, straining against the material of her shell pink satin skirt. The same color as the lobes of her ears. The first time you loved a girl, you stopped loving god. You loved her laugh instead. The first time you loved a girl, she might have loved you back if she had known more than one way to worship. But you would never be holy enough to hold her faith.