St. Mary's

i lie where the dead lie out like lepers.

when Sunday School is over i slip out

to the parking lot and enjoy the sun more

than Isaac loved watching that ram burn

up to a blackened crisp rather than himself

because his father only knew what he was told

he had to know. God was deadpanned but i

looked up and the sunlight shimmered through

my squinting eyes.

in confession i told Father Tom

that my grandfather needed healing—

he said he knew because Grampa ate

the Eucharist from his hand every Monday

and his bite was getting weaker. i was ten.

he used to open beer bottles with his teeth.

lying in bed while above me the Vijen gazed down

upon this frightened child, i only knew

the cross my mother made from the dried palm

that was pinned above my doorway

next to the smoke detecter. i only knew that

the vent beside them both blew hot air

and palms burn so easily—if anything was my death

it would be that palm, the perfect kindling

for hellfires.

St. Mary’s always smelled like smoke

from cigarettes and incense, from fire and ice.

i can only make empty claims that i

will lie on my deathbed and say i wish

never to lie where the dead lie out like lepers

because i saw the smoke, prayed for fire

and thought my Grampa was such a fool

to open beer bottles with his teeth—

i prayed that my father would buy a ram.