Confessional Box

Burly men hoisted the saints on their shoulders and marched them through my town.Lucy, Anthony, Peter, Rocco, Padre Pio, the Madonna:saints paraded through the August streets, feathered in silvery teal bills,each bill, a prayer. Those in more pain taped bigger bills to cement robes.Once, a distant niece was dressed as an angel, hooked to a cable, hungover an ocean of hands. Once, my friend took a peace lily from churchstuck it in a glass jar on her yellow kitchen table. Cream stigm—comical, lumpy: an old-world penis. She taught me how to crochetone summer during the feasts. She said I needed to count, Make sure youfinger all your stitches & keep your loops loose so the hook goes through!My hands grew soft as the orange yarn let go its lanolin, the steelhook slippery. I crocheted a uterus, but not because I tried.Look, I said, L ook at the womb! It’s like an old holy woolen relic!She brewed strong black coffee in a tin pot. We talked about our sins.