Pew

At some point I stopped receiving Communion,

sat pews away so my father wouldn’t see

as I passed the plate without taking juice or cracker,

even sometimes pretended to swallow

on cue: For this is my body. For this is my blood.

I loved the way the purple dregs twinkled

when everyone lowered the plastic cups.

The problem with poetry is I want wine with it—

the problem with everything. My regular bar

has a pew against one wall where I sit

reading, rolling cigarettes, eyed by

and eyeing the other suppliants.

The bartender begins to set out paraffin candles.