I feel like I’m eavesdropping in Gethsemane,
when I tiptoe into the parish chapel
after dark. A lone Catholic kneels
directly before the monstrance,
before the Eucharist within,
I sit off to the side,
because it feels appropriately subordinate—
like an overflow room.
My thoughts wander.
I think a lot about waste.
The chapel walls hold violence.
Everywhere I turn here, there’s a cross—
many of them occupied.
I tracked some of my day’s anger
into the chapel. But only
I, and maybe He, can see it.
I spy no side glance from the Catholic,
when I abstain from kneeling
or crossing myself. Still,
I try to match his holiness.
I read scripture.
I bow my head; I close my eyes.
I feel like I’m posing.
I open my eyes.
Why am I…
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