sunday mass

full of Catholicism
at the age of twelve,
the incentive of fear and guilt
in full bloom,
I used to wear
a button down short sleeved
shirt to Easter Sunday
mass. canary yellow.
it seemed right.
loosely tucked into
my khaki pants,
a brown belt to match
brown shoes.
hair combed, shiny
with brylcreme, parted
evenly on the side.
catechism in hand.
an envelope with four
quarters rattling around
in my pocket.
church was after the cellophane
was ripped
off the easter baskets
that my mother set out on
the dining room table.
seven. all different colors,
glimmering, translucent
in the overhead light.
chocolate rabbits,
and yellow peeps,
jelly beans,
easter eggs dyed
by our hands the day before.
by the time we got
home from church there
was a ham
in the oven, filling the house
with warmth, my mother,
excommunicated by divorce,
was busy with scalloped potatoes,
unsmiling at the stove,
asking how church was.