Episcopalian Years

I remember, long years ago, when my mother
would drag me tired-eyed from a warm bed
and ungently stuff me into Sunday’s sundry frills.
We walked the four dull blocks to the church,
her modest heels tip-tapping across the concrete.

We knelt on the hard floor, arching our hands
in mimicry of the vaulted beam-crossed ceiling.
I would sneak glances, squirming'neath iconic eyes,
to see the stiff edges of Mother’s face softened
by the shifting colors from the stained glass,
soothed by the pale pink of Mary's brow
and the white of wing-wrapped hosts.

I was always a little afraid, at those times,
that the smiling crystalline Jesus above us
would smite me down in a rain of holy fire
because I loved her more, kneeling in church,
than at any other place in the entire world--

She no longer looked like herself.