April 1, Picking Up The Past

Picking Up The Past

In my past, lived
a thin little girl,
with red plaid pants, short
for her ankle, a white starched blouse
with those colourful embroideries
buttoned to the collar like her
very own chasuble. Tight tails
of the pony sort,
relieved her center
part of the weight
of her hair, sometimes braided
like her tight fingers, wrapped
in pose at church, or at Sunday dinner.
She bowed her head, down.

On the altar, draped in white,
she could look up and
count the decorations,
and the parishioners,
or the Marys.
People commented
on her piety.
"You are always praying," they said.
She never told
them what she was doing.