The 10 AM Service

The bells are going at St. Jude’s.

I can hear them over the spit of the butter

as I crack an egg into the pan.

My head hurts from the wine last night,

and the sunlight is being too loud.

I moved the mirror to clean the glass

and found a palm frond tucked behind the wire,

brown and brittle as an old bone.

I remember the smell of that vestibule—

lemon wax and the heavy damp of wool coats

on a rainy Sunday. I don't miss the kneeling,

just the way I used to believe

that a little water could actually fix a person.