Catechism Agnostica
I start to sweat
the moment the doors close—
like the safety bar
on a roller coaster
dropping. Maybe I can plead
ignorance. Maybe no one will
notice. When the music changes
people rise, exit pews,
drop halfway, a quarter,
trace a path across their bodies,
Left/right? Right/left? Which knee?
Then the rise and turn:
Peace be with you
and also with you. These are
the gestures I worry about
not the homily or frankincense—
steps to a dance
I just don’t know,
like slipping off
tap shoes, my mother
whispering into the phone,
Graceful as a cow
on ice skates.
What if God is in the audience,
all of us standing, kneeling, wheeling
around in pews, all those arms
flailing about our faces as if
set upon by bees? I wonder
if He whispers to His apostles
something crass, or maybe
just thinks, disappointed, all those lessons
and still no better than this?
.
Blame
Even after rinsing in the yellow colander,
most of last week’s grapes crush
at first touch. A few hold fast
to the stem, though it’s nothing
like tugging the plastic ones
from the centerpiece
on my mother’s coffee table.
I sat cross-legged on the rug,
bobby socks slipping into scuffed shoes
and plucked a plastic grape, stuck it
to my tongue, waved it around
on that strong pink muscle.
My sister laughed, I laughed,
the grape broke loose,
rolled into my throat.
I had to swallow.
First it stuck, but the second time,
it was gone forever. All my life
I’ve blamed my mother
for my fear of choking,
for other things. I slip a grape
between my lips, bite it in half,
swallow.
© Melody Wilson
Melody Wilson’s work appears in Sugar House Review, Pangyrus, VerseDaily, Tar River Review, and Crab Creek Review. Upcoming work is in Kestrel, The Shore, and San Pedro River Review. She received 2022 Pushcart nominations from Redactions and Red Rock Review, and was semi-finalist for the Pablo Neruda Award. She is pursuing her MFA at Pacific University. Find more of her work at melodywilson.com.
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