the mundane, #5 & #6:

5.

The war bride next door complains
that my apartment lacks
the godly knick-knacks
that could help me
get through the hell of living.

I've got a bad air.

Last week, she invited me to
her apartment-blessing.
A fat catholic priest hummed
prayers at her kitchen counter
and for $300,
he spread incense over her bed.

The priest offered to bless me for the same price.
I decided to air out my apartment instead.

The war bride had worked as a dancer near
an American navy base in the Philippines.
A man eventually carried her away
to this apartment complex in Los Angeles.

It was what it was:
He gambled away their romance
on horse races
and drank heavily.

For years, she waited for him to die
and finally he did.

On her dresser,
there are no pictures of her husband,
only figurines of saints
clustered together like dull fruits.

She had to get rid of the bad air.

Today, the war bride comes over
and talks of celebrating Ash Wednesday.
I should have made palm crosses--
Hers are made of blessed dollar bills.




6.

Sleeping with other men who are not you
reminds me of the time when I broke
the sanctuary lamp at church.

Ten years old,
I had learned in school that day
the essence of God was
to forever be held there
in the form of a flame.

I snuck into the empty church
and threw a rock as hard as I could--
the lamp burst,
spilling the waxy entrails
of the Lord onto the floor.

I felt no remorse.
I had broken
Adam’s maker.

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