First Time, Intentions, & Actual Life

First Time

I wore white gloves.
I wore white shoes.
The boy next to me
wore a white suit.
First Communion was held
in a little church, praying
—dropping a dime in
a basket, wicker, lined,

like hands with green
suede, rooftop sinking
wet with shingles the
collection never fixed.
He touched the inside
of my thigh. He scared
the priest with his eyes
moving around like dice.

That boy now
is married to a gun,
and I had touch-
shaped bruises for weeks.

Intentions

Back during church, my mother
would say “cross yourself,”

like cancelling out your body
but leaving the soul underneath.

This was how I understood
Godwound red like a fat lip.

Crossed myself, named it
blessing and went to confession

where the priest had me list
intentions: Don’t steal. Don’t hurt.

Be kind to my brothers and sisters
—it made me think of the moon, how

you can still see it
in the corner of the night,

even, or especially,
when it isn’t there at all.

Actual Life

Place your poem
in a box and

eat the box with
vinegar and

happy sauce like
a proud moon graz

-ing. There were times
I ran in and

out of the house,
jumped from the car,

stayed on one side
of the river

and not until
I grew up did

I feel it all
—the loneliness

the earthquake rip-
pling like a lake

with dark corners.