My God hides in the stained glass
over the last pew.
Even when the sun shines through,
his body is cold and he is dead.
His skin is gray and shimmers
like pond water.
Little sister
wants to shake her girlhood off
like a coat,
but for now
her shoes
will do.
My God watches me squirm
under the incense
as my mother thinks about leaving
after the eucharist.
His eyes are dead,
they hang all sorrowful.
Dog-like,
mourning under the table
at suppertime.
There is no air.
Sweat drips down my back
and I imagine
I am burning.
My God’s head is mounted
on a wreath of thorns
that I think Pontius Pilate pulled
from my backyard.
His sweat is pink,
glazed seafoam under sunset.
My God is burning
and beneath his lacquered light,
I am wreathed in flames.
Little brother sounds out
the Latin on the window
like a love song.
Crucifixo condolore,
donec ego vixero.
Amen.