The Kneeling Bench

The kid at the pharmacy had a clip-on tie

and shoes that clicked on the white tile floor.

I felt a sudden weight behind my eye,

remembering the day by the heavy oak door.

The room was too hot, the air thick with blooms,

a hundred white lilies beginning to wilt.

We sat in the back of the smallest of rooms

wrapped in our Sunday clothes and our guilt.

I leaned my head on my father’s dark sleeve,

the wool was so scratchy it burned my red ear.

He told me to shush, that we couldn't yet leave,

and I watched the dust motes until I could hear.