Sunday, an old hat, strong perfume drifting
like incense over the altar and pews.
Stop this ritual. Take back
its Latin chant. I say the rosary.
I cover my head. I put coins in the collection
plate when it’s passed around. I do
my penance. I eat Christ. I recite along with
everyone when the priest cues. I genuflect
and make the sign of the cross.
I wonder if God sees me among all
these people, if I’ve made
an impression on him. Do I feel blessed?
Is the light more than sunlight, the rain
more than water rushed with wind,
a storm retribution I have read about?
When I watch the world on TV, I see
the masses, blessed and unblessed.
My holiness is a large bell
struck. Watch the pigeons flutter off,
the wings beating, the rhythm of flight,
as each attempts its own life.