The Weight of the Word

The chapel is freezing for a Tuesday in May.

My cousin is wearing white lace and looks gray.

The woman beside me, with a hat like a bird,

shoves a book in my hand so I can follow the word.

It’s heavy as a brick and bound in blue cloth.

The pages are gold-edged and thin as a moth.

The paper feels like dry skin against my thumb,

while the organ pipes start their low, steady hum.

I don't know the tune but I hold onto the weight,

standing in line while the choir sings of fate.