Sunday Morning

Sunday morning we get dressed for Church

like always.

I wear a floral smock and nylon pantyhose like mother would,

brush my curls in bold strokes like fell-

swoops. In the bristles are tumbleweed

knots from the hidden

parts of my wicked hair.

Down the hall, Father's door is open;

He stands in front of a mirror frowning at his other, red-faced, eyes

still shining from the night before. He weaves a long leather belt

into his dress pants like a snake, pulls it so tight that, for a moment,

I can't breathe.

At breakfast I look for the word of God in the alphabet

of our milk.

Thorny windows crown the tops of the church walls,

I think so God can look in

to see if our heads are down.

Sleepy boys sing slowly, hymns kiss

my eyelids closed and I begin

to dream,  hair spilling on the back of the pew, soft.

I think of Christopher from next-door and that tingle

below my belly when he held my hand. I see us on the swings,

pumping higher until I fall off, head lurching.

I wake up when my face smacks the Bible.

On the cross, a man looks at me in pain, his black eyes

say I have sinned.

Holy Father. Holy, holy. Amen.