[stand]
Towering right off Melrose, the thick of Mexican immigrants. A few blocks away – güeros: espresso shots, vintage clothes. The hollywood dream.
*
Remember the pews;
smooth to touch.
Remember the hymn books;
stale & worn.
Remember the kneelers;
ragged // crimson
*
Tia Concha’s was close, two blocks south. I’d enjoy the stroll, sticky pan dulce. The clicking of dress shoes on concrete. “Buenas dias” echoing down the avenue.
*
The sun and heat were unrelenting. I’d lose myself in the illuminated stained glass and shiny streams of dust, painted rose.
[sit]
I never knew if I really believed, mostly people watched as everyone around me lowered their eyes and recited in whispers. I was absent in the words. Nearby St. Faustina’s look, damning.
*
After we’d all congregate in front, the “peace be with you’s” turned to gossip. He’d be standing there watching, crown and all.
*
Years later, I still smell those books and see the floating dust. Still wavering.
[repeat]
