KATE PASHBY
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victor my father the usher strolls down the burgundy-carpeted aisles, wielding the woven basket with a handle like an oar abandoning me in the back pew with marshmallow cereal bits and a coloring book colors that could never live up to these stained-glass saints Peter Paul Matthew Mark Luke John Mother Mary gazes down on me a vision in blue, watching me unlike my own mother shepherding my baby sister at home at 7 am my family must owe a debt to this church, for my uncle is the lector sitting in the front row at the 8 am Mass and my cousins, my sister, and I will all become altar servers angels in ill-fitting white robes fearing unholy red stains for the entire congregation to see cradle the cruet, caress the crucifix brass seashells to catch the host should it fall from someone’s lips
Santa Fe Literary Review
71
