So be it
To feel cleaner, I sit under stained light beside a mutt, under
all the opulence hung
to conceal the fact that chapels have ceilings.
The mutt is praying for the sick.
I don’t know what I am praying for,
but I know that it is embarrassing
that a mutt has more to pray for than I do.
I hold broken earrings in my palms,
too dear to be thrown away and too cheap to repair.
of all the venial sin I’ve committed and try to forget things
I can’t forgive, think of the mutt with his head bowed as if he is not
just a dog, as if he believes. Think of how each seat is reserved for a sinner.
I can’t remember the last time I attended mass.
Outside, there are landmines planted. I was a landmine once.
I kneel and I close my eyes and I pray for them.
Sydney Kim writes poetry in Chicago. She is seventeen and hungry.