Everything for the man who died on a cross, who even in his last hour, believed I was worth it all.

This is the cup of the new and everlasting covenant
Shed for you and for all, so that our sins may be forgiven...

Do this in memory of Me.

In memory of the spooky parochial school halls
In memory of the wizened nuns, quietly obedient
In memory of the over-simplicity of rules
In memory of false piety laced with hypocrisy
In memory of crushing inadequacy

Do this, in memory of me, the child.

In memory of the child whose uniform never quite fit
Whose body developed too early
Who had trouble making friends
Who didn't have enough discipline

Do this, do that, don't do this, don't do that
So many tiny rules and expectations
to love, serve and obey

Black rosary beads
Holy prayers uttered to God
Penance for my sins

father,
it has been over a decade
since my last confession;
in fact,
that crisp lenten day,
you in your purple,
I refused to come in,
giggling,
because I had committed nothing
worth an intermediary.

under lock and key,
anxious not to make trouble,
a natural people pleaser,
what could I child do but
laugh at sin?

today my prayers are mingled -
mangled,
a clutter of languages and deities:
my god is one but also many.
I’m not even Catholic anymore,
But for old time’s sake,
will you listen?

Sister Magdalene had her own parking space
in the lot of the church where my grandfather
placed his hand on my shoulder.
Over the other, Joan of Arc whispered a joke
about the Father.
Something about bad breath.
I giggled a fragmented
Amen.

As a young girl I dreamt of the honor
of battle and the burden
of armor. Each morning I’d awake,
my wrist sore from painting fields
menstrual red. My thighs ached.
My horse's name was Gust.
She was the color of overcast.
Once, she got so tired
she kneeled. When she stood
her stomach held the night sky.
I laid beneath her and named stars
from bits of her fur
until the field began to whisper so loud
that I woke.

Sister Magdalene sat in the first row of pews.
Her skeleton hands held a candle. The flame
tip-toed up her habit with the resolve
of a field of corpses rolling their eyes
toward salvation. When the flame
reached her chin I bit my lip.
Joan asked what’s wrong
or what’s right.
My mouth was full.

The flame grew to reach the Father,
kneeling at the feet of a cadaver.

I listened to the church bend
in the heat until Joan begged that we leave.