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I am watching you– kneeling before the bones of St. Peter.
Head bowed, lips quickly quivering as you recite ancient words that mean
little to you and even less to me.
“Oh Glorious Saint Peter...”
It is trancelike– analytical but emotional–
as I can see that cute little furrow in your brow–
the one you get when I leave ice cold coffee cups
on our bedside table, leaving little rings.
Or the same one that appears when we walk through the grocery store,
hand in hand, and, for a moment, I break our sacred covenant
for a box of Pop Tarts– “that isn't on the list”
You are locked in. Focused and dedicated.
*sigh*
My eyes wander up and down the walls, scanning corner to corner,
quietly noticing each adornment in this chapel.
(It’s really pretty gay when you think about it)
Gold plated sconces, bedazzled, bejeweled
robes of luscious velvet and elegant lace table toppers.
A dedicated crowd of adorers... moving their lips in tandem
to songs they all somehow know the words to, but I don't.
Reverently, handing their money over to the idol of their affection.
Passing the plate down and down–a drag queen’s dream.
*sigh*
I close my eyes for a moment to call out to my own Saint–
Sister Mary Clarence, why have you forsaken me...
(This church needs a little more Whoopi.)
I think about that scene–that one we can both sing whenever asked.
“Hail mother of mercy and of love. Oh Maria”.
Remembering how happy we were. are. were.
*sigh*
I don't understand how you could bring yourself here.
How you could wiggle yourself into your freshly pressed Easter chinos to
stand up, kneel, sit down, stand up, kneel, sit down
in endless liturgical repetition.
But then again, you’ve never had to worry
about the whole of your back being exposed every time you kneel
or the front of your shirt spatchcocking itself
if and when you stand up too quickly.
Your pants have never “crown of thorns”-ed themselves
around your waist or your thighs or your legs.
Do not forgive them father,
because they know exactly what they do.
You scoff at me for wearing my baggiest sweatpants to church.
But It’s the only comfort I can find in a place like this.
*sigh*
I wonder what flows through your mind
like the hymns and prayers that fill this spacious cavern...
I track the vibrations of faith as they bounce off the monolith walls
both the literal I can see and the metaphysical I can feel
when we met, I was sure you didn't like me
you were cold, reserved, impossible to see within and yes... I was looking
but then you kissed me and I wasn't sure what to do with that
and then you kissed me again
the way you grabbed my waist felt unfamiliar
you were present but not forceful, gently aggressive in the most exciting way
your hand glided over my curves and folds without hesitation
as you handled me like an antique book- fragile but worthy of turned pages
and now we’ve met each others mothers
and vacationed just about everywhere we’ve wanted
we’ve regrouted the bathroom and mourned together over childhood pets
and bickered over new duvet covers. gingham it is.
*sigh*
I wish you would look at me the way you look at these remains
that I could hold your deepest attention for longer than a moment
And I wonder, when the times comes, and all my flesh and fat falls away
Will you love til I am bones?