Mass

Sitting in the cold pew repeating hollow words as the woman in red looks around to make sure all is in place.
Kneel, stand, Kneel, stand
Kneel-
Because I am a sinner, that is what they tell me.
The faces look ahead but never behind, because they can't turn their faces from the Lord.
Sex-
Don't think of that....
Cross your legs.....
"lift up your hearts"
Hypocrisy-
Don't think of that....
"He died for our sins"
I didn't ask him to.....
I am sitting in this guilt factory unable to breath,
because the incense clouds billow to the front row.
"Sleep in heavenly peace," as the woman in front of me cries and looks at a photo of a girl who is not present beside her, stuck in a keychain of dirty pink suede.
I believe in the ground under my feet, the dirt and earth and whatever is responsible,
But I can't feel that in these walls of brick.
And what of the atheists at Christmas, who sit alone at home, perhaps phoning each other
as if part of a secret meeting as organized as the Holy Episcopal Church?
LET US PROCLAIM THE MYSTERY OF FAITH.
I sit silenced as my family steps over me to receive the body of Christ,
Stand, Kneel, stand, Kneel.
My knees are bruised.
If the Virgin Mary slept around would they love her still?
Would she have her own statue, at the front of the nave, beneath the domes and under the altar?
Round young virgin, mother and child- ....
Yet I am unsure, breathing heavily, as the hymn books open.
I am doomed to the edge of hell as the undecided are, to follow behind Virgil and meet those caught in the fires.
"And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil."
Deliver me from evil, I am a sinner, that is what they tell me
Time and again, they make me say "Lord, I am not worthy to receive you."
"Lord I am not worthy to receive you"
"Lord, when will I be worthy to receive you? What exactly are the qualifications?"
"Lord I will never be worthy to receive you, will I?"
"Lord am I worthless?"
Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, Amen.
The priest and the altar boys walk down the aisle and the people look eagerly to see when he passes so that they may leave,
bolting like fiddler crabs before the last words of "Angels we Have Heard on High" have barely passed from their lips,
traces of the Eucharist still lingering on their breath.