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Easter Sunday

Press play on the tape recorder.

Angelic voices rise in harmony
over the PA system
so pure
it's ironic
like the soundtrack to a horror movie
about lapsed
cannibalistic
Catholics

Step towards the altar
leave the crowd behind
and enter into the void
where only you and he can go

The brush of his hand
rekindles the terror of this place.

Try not to think about
spontaneous
human
combustion.

Try not to look so conspicuous.

Try not to tremble in the face of
nothing
while the priest's rough hands hold on to yours
his face aglow with pity
and the knowledge
that this spring lamb before him has been sheared

the thick black wool peeking through.

(March 31 2002)


© Katherine Maheux, 2003.