sunday school i'm sending my white knee socks to the bell tower so they can learn something about god. one of my toes is crooked & i wonder which hymn i broke it on. it's alright though because rachel & i agree all feet are ugly. children in sunday school are standing on the ceiling & the blood is rushing to their heads. someone get them down before they plummet themselves. linoleum is holy. neon is holy. a bat in the attic wakes from a bad dream with no one to comfort her. the mice hold midnight mass & use cheese for the eucharist. in fifth grade my sunday school class learned about the parts of the mass. i don't remember any of it but do remember i had a crush on a boy with longish hair & he used to spend the whole class cracking his knuckles & checking the window as if someone might be peering in. the angels have taken the last five to seven years off entirely. they cover their ears & say "don't tell me what happens." the sacristy is waiting for us. once the eucharist turned into a butterfly in my mouth so i swallowed quickly before it could escape. i want someone to teach me how to love my own rapid uncertainty. what am i supposed to do with my ankles? i wash the feet of a demon & tell him "i'm only doing this to make my family upset with me." he shrugs. it's sunday again & again & again & i want nothing to do with it. the children in sunday school take turns kissing in the utility closet. a nun with a round face admits defeat & joins the others in the attic. i keep a bowl of ash under my sink in case i need to be reminded. the dust can be so loud. i peer at it & whisper "hush."