sunday school

it was winter when we walked across
the church yard to watch a man carving mary.
i was in fifth grade & each lesson
was dedicated to learning the parts
of the mass. i don't remember them now.
i slept in chalices & let bells ring 
in my throat. i prayed all the time. obsessively.
my favorite prayer was the hail mary.
she seemed like she might understand
more of what it would be like to feel like
you live outside your body. i was a young queer
in the belly of a catholic church.
kept so much inside myself. there were
cathedrals between my ribs
where i went, harboring relics. a jaw.
a skull. the carver stood on a ladder 
& worked with all kinds of blades.
the garage of the rectory where he labored 
was frigid. i blew hot air on my hands
to warm them. he pointed to her 
& said, "do you know what this is?"
in a quiet voice i answered,
"the assumption." her arms reaching out.
she was being swallowed by heaven. 
angels pulling her skin. her flesh. 
i tried to read her eyes, half-finished.
dull in the wood. did she want to be devoured 
or did she want to die & sleep
in the soil? i thought of my wooden body.
the tree in the yard i climbed. saw 
the faces of saints in the knots. 
delighted, the carver praised me.
other children with their eyes darting 
around the woodshop. months later
the finished piece would be brought
into the church. placed right across
from where my family always sat.
i met her gaze. it was my own.
the look of an in-between creature.
not a plea, but a question,
"where will we go?"