“Some Catholics you kids are!”
Grandma scolds as
she ushers us out the
door, Palm Sunday—
“Hurry! You are going to be
late!”
We walk without haste to the
car.
My sister drives. My brother
sits in front and gives Sister
driving instructions.
Sister snaps “SHUT UP!
GO TO HELL!”
My brother says
he will tell Grandma of the
language Sister uses…
A seething silence ensues.
The smoke stack of the
textile factory is higher
than the church steeple.
Sister does not dip her finger
into the holy water fount as
we enter
and as mass begins
she walks out—
her soul, I know
is black as coal
(mine white with touch of venial gray)
during the sermon
my brother falls asleep, cheek
on the varnished wood pew,
a string of drool from his mouth—
I punch him and
he wakes, but
instead of thanking me—
for saving his soul—
he whips me
on the ride home
with a palm
taken from the church.
Wayne F. Burke's poetry has been widely published in print and online (including in THE DAILY DOPE FIEND). He is author of eight collections of poetry--most recently BLACK SUMMER, Spartan Press, 2021. He lives in Vermont (USA).
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