It’s All in God’s Hands

I wanted to play Gabriel in a tinsel crown,
but was cast as the Little Drummer. I hoped
to carry the crucifix, to ferry the chalice
down the long corridor of St. Aloysius
toward consecration, but was assigned
the readings instead, and the petitions too,
assigned them so often Father joked
one of the boys would have to sacrifice
his seat on the altar to save me
the trip between lectern and pew. I prayed
all through eighth grade to be named
May Queen, but stayed an attendant—
we couldn’t afford a new dress. Nor could I
keep on pitch, which is why the director
made me the Holy Mother: Virginal, outfitted
in blue, for weeks I pretended to nurse
a swaddled doll or, if available, a local infant.
Pageant let out, the baby handed back,
I’d climb in a beat-up truck with one of
the Wise Men, who drove us deep in the country
where we’d fog the dashboard and I’d let him
go up my shirt. I wanted to be better. To be good.
In the back of St. Rita’s, Max lit my hair
with a devotional candle—just a strand of it,
but thick enough to snuff the scent of incense
marking stations of the cross. Knowing
we weren’t meant to use our teeth, I hated
the way the FFA guys chomped the Eucharist,
how they turned up Saturday nights
for Mass then met in the parking lot afterward
to pony money for kegs. I usually stuck
to Sundays, except, once, when Nancy K.,
whose mother worked with my mother,
sweet-talked me into switching. I should’ve known
better as we slipped into the Buick with two
football players from the next town over,
who sped us thirty-six minutes to Corcoran,
blasting Thin Lizzy’s “Jailbreak” while popping
cans of Natty Light. In the backseat,
I kept a sober distance, hugging
the door while the stranger beside me smoked,
and Nancy flirted in the front with Frank,
who cut the engine as we approached
the prison, telling us the whole operation
worked like clockwork—we had X seconds
before watchmen would make the call, a pair of
headlights bright as owls’ eyes igniting
as the patrol left the gate, edging toward us
down a gravel road. “Know what
Manson did?” dragged the voice beside me. “Stupid,
he got caught.” And two lights shot on
across the field, the cruiser moving slowly at first,
then faster, dust pumped from its tires
exploding into a cloud, Nancy begging Frank
to take off, “GO!” she cried, “Jesus
fucking Christ GO!” until Frank cracked, turned
the key and hit the gas, and when it was clear
we were in the clear, Nancy laughed
and laughed and slid across the bucket seat,
started kissing Frank, who glanced back, pointed
to his lap and made the sign of the cross.