night mass

i have a recurring nightmare that i am a priest
& it is the big moment in mass
when the bread turns into body.
everyone can tell i'm faking it. 
my words turn into birds & i choke 
on the feathers. eggs smash on the floor.
the pews are empty until they're not.
until they're all my father. until they're all
smelling of roses. i still talk about my aunts
as if they're all alive. there is only
one left on this plane but the other two
are in the pews. the third, up in the rafters
or maybe in the stained glass itself.
she has said all her life, "i'm never going
to die" & there she is. prophecies are meant
to be left unfulfilled. there's the point. 
if they all opened then what would we 
be waiting for? he's not coming back. i'm as much
of a priest as anyone. i know how to listen
to the water. i know how to scoop the baptized bugs
from the foundation. holy little beetles. holy
little fat flies. in the nightmare i do not 
finish mass. i can't. i want to. the words
to the prayers have left me for dead. that is
the thing about repetition. it can unravel.
i used to say the our father in bed
at night to ward off the ghosts. of course
it didn't work. they played with the words
like rocking horses. i run from the altar
& i hide in the church bathroom
still wearing the priest robes. the heat 
never reached there & so the whole room 
would be cold. cold butt on cold toilet seat.
cold hands. cold water from the sink. 
i don't know why i keep the robe on.
it is the pink one for that one day in advent. 
a candle rolled sideways, still lit, underneath
the stall door. they want their body.
their bread. i don't know how to deliver it. 
that is when i wake up. there is always
a communion wafer dissolving 
on my tongue. i swallow it, guilty
though of what i am not sure.