Knelt during mass, scanning the pews ahead, to the side,
for your new haircut, the shirt you only wore on Sundays, and
the smile you brandished like a club against my face; bashing me
to blubbering idiocy and sloppy smiles both before and after blowjobs.
Did you know I wore my skirts for you? Left the socks rip into
my calves so you’d see my knee and thighs push high? Did you know
the fights I got into with my mom about the length of the hem?
how close to butt it went before she made me unroll it?
No, you didn’t know, we were too full of grace:
the priest’s dentist clean smile and trembling hand at Eucharist,
and the sigh I’d wink at you back to my seat.
But you never cared for those details, fondling my breasts
under white blouse and underwire bras in your basement, after.
Never cared for the light of God shining through the stained glass
on us both, like two shafts of Grace, that blessed our exploring