ATTENDING CHURCH, AGE THREE
"Mommy, I can't see.
That man shook hands with me."
Tunnels from the crayon colored windows
make specks appear;
sticks floating in a stream.
I grab them, but
I don't grab them.
When I open my hand
they reappear.
Out of the purse comes my army man
and Indian, standing on the hill
that is my knee. The people stand and sing.
They are kicking and hitting, start to bleed.
At the end they are dead
in Daddy's pocket.
He gives me money,
but I have to drop it in the soup dish
and be quiet,
because everyone is almost falling asleep.
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Published in Colorado - North Review
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