i want to tell you the story of an altar girl/boy
who loved lightning the candles before mass.
first server in the sacristy, white robe size 13
with the brown chord around my waist.
oh, god tie me tighter-- i'm falling together--
there was a full-length mirror there 
by the closet, where i surveyed my holy-ghost body--
dove feathers shaken loose from sleeves.

i imagine god sitting on the other side
of the mirror, watching me as time passed,
i grew thinner & more like a used match stick--
eating handfuls of my own hair & bows &
penance & semen & violets & holy orders.
Monsignor shaffer would emerge from the confessional 
to tell me to light the candles. church still 
dark, the candles burning one by one at each

corner of the altar, fire genuflecting for the shadows,
spoke every language full of gossip.
as i'd sit through mass i worried that everyone 
could hear my thoughts, the whole church full-- 
i promised: i don't kiss girls i don't kiss girls
i don't kiss girls-- 
dug again for virginity in my thigh muscles-- 
reaching for it deeper in the walls of my vagina 

where the blood came from-- where the collection basket 
is passed around. i'm one confession away from his body
& purple blood. i served mass all through high school 
but my robe size never changed. Uncle rich
said it was inappropriate to wear 
flip-flops on the altar like the Torres kids, 
so i wore flats or heels-- hands folded in my lap.

i keep thinking that maybe it's you who will save me,
that you'll announce tomorrow for all the news outlets
that catholics can be gay/trans now & not ashamed of it--
that god isn't highlighting the faggot parts of me 
in the full length mirror where i still put on the robe--

see that's how they get you-- they make you think 
that it's your fault for having parts of yourself
that rot-- love the sinner hate the sin the sin the sin--
my sin is a church who wrapped my arms in gauze 
& painted my finger nails black like the gods--

pope francis i'm asking, who are you, then, to judge me? 
with our gold-chalice god whose mouth is a binder clip
& a burning oil-wick candle. my 18-year-old brother
tells me that even if you accepted gay marriage
that the church never could/would/should
& i felt the mirror in the sacristy shatter
from the other side where god struct out at me
for being a gambling dice in the holy space.

i'm offering you the sinful parts of myself 
for you to wash in those sinks where
the water goes right back into the ground

this, right here, is the space on my neck
where he kissed me back to eden-- where
we took off our nakedness in front of the snakes
here, on my thigh, is where i inject 0.3 mL of testosterone 
every week-- it feels like angel teeth &
here right here is where the bishop
made the sign of the cross on my forehead at confirmation,

just like he did for you. 
i don't need your permission for a god to make 
these/our bodies without boundaries-- 

i eat the apple whole 
i come early to light the candles