MASS

There is nothing holier than the feeling of leaving church

When the Sunday mass finally ceases 

and old women wearing emerald brooches line to give their 

compliments to the parish 

and I can finally take off my doily socks and pleated braids 

and apply ointment to the spots on my hands burnt 

from slowly dripping wax 

and the choir sings their last song

and it’s always much happier than their usual score 

because we should all finally admit to ourselves 

that there is so much joy in it being over 

I was told during my first holy communion that I shall feel the spirit of God enter my body clean my 

impure thoughts and fill me with a light of clarity 

I was told that the body and blood of christ is rare and I should be 

grateful to take him in every Sunday

I was told that there is no better feeling than sitting in a confession booth and praying ten Hail Mary’s to 

make up for the fact that I swore at my mother 

When I grew older there was no holier feeling than slumber and nothing washed over me like the 

beginnings of sleep and the tingling in my brain trying to come up with stories to feed a wanton teenage mind and let’s be honest the putrid incense that fills my lungs as I walk down the long wooden 

pews is nothing compared to my first cigarette lit by a boy who will never bring me home

I was told that God is everywhere, He is in nature 

So why do I see my face, my reflection in every body of water 

Why has God not wrapped me in a sand blanket and said that nothing was wrong with me 

There is no holier feeling than a campfire, setting ablaze creation 

There is no immense joy like the destruction of his home or the sadness in my chest when the last ember 

burns out 

Why does the quiet of night wrap me in its arms and promise it will not tell my secrets if He is so all 

seeing 

Why does every secret feel like a slug sitting in my throat never quite leaving just more digestible as i age 

Why does the silence in a room feel like a pregnant pause 

There is nothing better than shedding the curse of woman

There is no certainty like a catholic divorce 

There is no shame like the fullness of my words 

if i must think than i shall never speak at all