YUZUKO AT EVENING MASS

What is important, I say to my niece, is the way the cars light up

the stained glass. The gold-tipped dramatics of Saint George.

The cowslip and the Christmas rose. I don’t know

what she believes of apostles or virgins or saints,

those who witnessed moon beams in red and blue and thought

God and thought blood and thought baptism. She may,

like me, be taken to task by some for wanting a nebulous love,

an unfocused peace, unguided by doctrine or scripture.

I rub holy water behind her ear. I do. I hold her hand

on the way to the car, but don’t know if I’ve correctly implored

anyone for the soul of my own mother and father. The moon

is obscured tonight. I guide her face up to the parking lot light.

HAPPY NOW?

A whole year I had nightmares

of waiting at the end of the aisle

the suit was gray and skinny

it was hot and I was mad

I hated the lilies for runwaying

the way like yellow lanterns

I hated white I wanted cream

I was thick thick as wool

thick in the same old places

and I could smell it so close by

that median where the mallow

always bloomed that watering hole

by the mechanic’s shop I didn’t

envy youth I would never fear age

I wanted: to wear navy to have a single

orange hang over a single neighbor’s fence

for this city to call me its only son

to flatter me in its same old language