blindfold 

they took us to the parking lot
in blade-ridden winter.
we were fifth graders. parched knuckles. 
my dinner plate face. we were preparing for 
confirmation. to offer our pomegranates 
up to an empty ceiling. the church
sat in between two cornfields.
the priest had carved a statue of mary
to perch within an old limestone kiln.
she watched us with her eyes
made of pennies. no one really 
knew what confirmation meant.
terrified to ask too many questions
i tried to find my holiness
but it was like sticking your hand
into a sandbox. lost rings 
& plastic dinosaurs & a stray shoe 
no holiness. i always thought holiness
would probably be something like 
soft serve ice cream. 
we'd spent all day reciting 
answers to questions like,
"what are the seven sacraments?"
i don't remember what the activity
was for but they put us
into pairs & blind-folded one, 
telling the other to lead those
who cannot see. maybe it was 
a metaphor for what we were
called to do, to lead others home.
the irony of the forced blind fold.
it had snowed on a few days prior.
wind bit us red. a bruised flock
of clouds. i was the blind folded one
& i peeked. watched my feet,
one in front of the other
while a girl i barely knew
put her hand on my shoulder,
as if she was saving me. she spoke kindly.
she said, "we are almost there."
i did not trust her. i did not trust
any of them. not the catechists 
or the windows or even the open-mouthed
mary who crouched in the kiln. i held on to 
the slit of light. when i made it back
i lied. i lied lusciously. i thanked
the girl. i thanked the ceiling.
is it a lie if a part of you 
wants it to be true?