May 11, 2010
Itchy wiry layer on my Sunday dress
It's white and covered in lilies
My mom holds my hand
My beaded white shoes click on the sidewalk
And we sit in the already crowded sanctuary
Thick clouds of flowers and perfume
Swirl into the blast of an organ
A cloud rolls in
And the stained glass projection on the floor
Dims from its shining
The stuffy room, the constricted pew
I look at my seven year old fingernails
I look at the crucifix
And wonder if Jesus ever sat next to his mom in church
And thought about what he'd have for lunch

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