after The Vaselines
Jesus was everywhere, Sister Marita Ann
Explained to the classroom of straight-backed
Second graders lined up like rosary beads, hands
Underneath our boxy seats, folded on plaid laps as
She revealed the secrets of Catholicism and the
Wooden figure my eyes tried to avoid catching
Above the altar each week, his too-naked body
Nailed to the cross above the priest, crown of
Thorns forever bound to his bent head as he
Suffers for Adam’s apple-eating. His death
Makes it possible, Sister says, for us to avoid
Eternal damnation—whatever that meant—in the
Fires of hell—which did not sound fun—or the other
Option, that murky ground, purgatory, pending the soul’s
Release into some nebulous heaven, where the worthy
Await their loved ones, watch us from above as we
Seven-year-olds are readied for Communion, struggle to
Understand this God who sends his only son to die and
Now wants us to confess our sins, drink his child’s
Blood as wine, eat his body, made magically into bread
Every Sunday for us sinners, when really, we’re just
A bunch of kids, praying not to be another of the
Martyrs He seems too intent on making.
Jill Michelle’s latest works appear/are forthcoming in Hawai`i Pacific Review, LEON Literary Review, New Ohio Review, ONE ART, and Red Flag Poetry. Her poem “On Our Way Home” won the 2023 NORward Prize for Poetry. She teaches at Valencia College in Orlando, Florida. Find more of her work at byjillmichelle.com.
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