apartment acotlye 

i used to wish i could 
take the altar server robes home--
staring at myself in the full-length mirror
at the corner of the sacristy. 
on the other side of the room
the priest would put on his vestments--
purple, long, & flowing. his movements 
like a lake dressing itself.
we never spoke-- just exchanges looks
through the mirror. his nod 
a signal to go light the candles 
on every corner of the altar.

i open my closet now & find it full 
of those off-white robes. 
all my other clothes gone. 
thank god, i think to myself &
i dress myself for mass with 
a brown chord around my waist. i walk around
my house as if it's a church--
carefully, pretending everything 
is holy & made of gold. the cabinets 
are full of hosts. the windows 
have turned to stained-glass & 
the street lamps outside cast strange 
shadows onto the wooden floor.

i try to remember what it is
an altar server is supposed to do.
i remember washing the priest's hands
before communion-- cool pitcher of water 
pouring over his wrinkled fingers.
i fill a glass with water & pour it
all over myself. i'm ready 
for god now. i'm ready for a sacrifice--
something biblical. the priest would
flick the water off his hands before
rubbing them dry with a towel i'd hand him.
i took my duties seriously
as if one acoltye held the whole mass together.

drying myself i search the apartment
for a bell. something to ring to signal 
life's importance. i find no bells so
i clink together pots & pans. a chime.
a ringing. this wakes god up & he presses his face
to the window-- only briefly. i find
the mark of his breath there. 
i am a good server. i am a ghost here
in the church. i light dozens of candles
& the flames laugh. i take off the robe
& put on another.