Today, as the priest was saying Mass,
I thought of you.
Impure were my thoughts,
clashing with the Gloria and the Sanctus,
fueled by the girl in front of me,
her jeans ripe with a fullness obvious.
I thought of you,
and wondered where you were,
Confederate Summer touching your blonde hair
as the sing-song of a language not understood
swirled about me,
my mind trying to focus on the goodness and the purity,
the image before me of Christ, arms open,
and yet the girl, weight shifted to one leg,
an accent of curves
and a fullness of flesh
singing Alleluia in this granite temple.
First published in The Powhatan Review, Summer 2003.
Copyright 2003 by Peter A. Stinson.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.
All rights reserved.