Poetry / Jesus

The last time I took Michael to church he grabbed my ass during communion. My mother looked at us like Jesus might fall off the cross.

Beyond the red glowing crosses of the stained glass windows, the August sun sweltered hot. I remembered that heat, how it had dripped from the rafters just the same on the day I fainted.

It’s become one of those polished stories now, another example of why I didn’t turn out quite right. My uncles bring is up at holiday dinners. We just laugh and laugh.

I don’t tell them I’m an atheist, that the day I cracked my head on the brass candelabra and lay, split open like some sacrifice, on the cold pink marble, was the day I began questioning religion.

I don’t ruin the mood by reminding everyone how Father Lang stepped over me to continue Mass, as I lay there bleeding.

I just smile. I pass the peas. I laugh.

On Sundays, Michael and I ride bikes. We play pinball and smoke our way through packs of cigarettes. Sometimes I’ll call my mother and tell her stories about the Masses I didn’t attend.

Her smile pours through my phone as Michael nudges me, impatient.

Sometimes I think I understand how Jesus must feel, stretched taut with his wooden arms pulling him in two, slung in gold around a million hapless necks, rung tight in rosary-clasping hands;

Somehow, that’s the only thing about religion that I understand.

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