I Write About Her In Church

I like the idea

that blasphemy would piss her off.

That she would die from knowing that my first communion class came

with the first time I was felt up by a boy.

That in the church bathroom I let him finger my neck that I confessed

lies to a priest because secrets made me

and stilled my lips.

She sent us there

to learn about god but I see her there,

with me

on her knees before the virgin –

lighting candles like she had done it for lifetimes

saying prayers because she believes and not because she needs.

I want her to cry in church and insist I marry in church and yell at me for the sake of

            church.

I imagine her repenting her life away:

           her alcohol and men

           her drugs and black eyes

           her streets and homes.

As if she knew anything about religion or god or church or saints or stained glass or

           broken pews or confessionals.

I imagine her swallowing the white round bread

drinking the thick red wine

even though she hates the taste, despite her hate for the taste

of it all.

 

---

A recent graduate of Hunter College in New York where she studied creative writing as well as journalism, Stephanie plans to attend graduate school in the fall of 2005. 

 

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