choir practice 

you used to sing in
saint mary's choir

this was vocation--

opening your voice like
a pocket watch--

like a tulip bulb--

it was march & 
i was fifth grade fat as a 
knotted tree trunk--

& the back seat of your blue jostled
as we drove up past
the air port dinner--

at night you would sit in the sun room
tape recorder praying--

the choir director had recorded
herself because you didn't
read music--

mass happening upstairs
as i sat in the dim living room--

i made communion of oreo
cookies & apple cider &
sometimes a metal bowl of grapes--

your foot tapping made the
pulse of our house--

your guitar ached as it
leaned on the book shelf--

i think i believed in god back then

& maybe so did you--

back when billy & i sat
in the gathering area after school
while you went to choir practice--

we watched you through the glass
windows into the church--

dusky golden glow of
light behind the altar--

the rest of the church 
dull & shadow heavy--

monsters belly-crawling
beneath pews--

sometimes we went outside
& sat near the garden--

the one you had planted
the year before 

with lambs ear & daffodils
& the pinkish butterfly bush
humming mouth full of bumble bees--

the grass turned indigo 
as we swallowed the sun 
like a eucharist host--

knees stained green

we could hear 
every one of your ghost hymns 
as they emptied from 
stained glass windows--

i imagine the skull
of god is something like
those windows--

kaleidoscope & cavernous--

reverberating vaguely of 
your voice

oh father forgive me--

i pinched the butterflies
by the wings to hold them still--

took handfuls of mulch
to feel the dirt beneath my
finger nails--

but always paused when you sang
the canticle of the turning 

it has always been my favorite 
song from church--

it's the only one i can sing
now from memory