sunday and me

Tread of shoes, heavy breath
on asphalt still warm from the sun.
It was dinner, it was Sunday,
it was your bike on the front lawn,
your backpack in the closet, your hands
wild and scared
of Sunday's lessons.
Blood and chocolate
on your shirt:
parting consolation gifts
from mother,
in stage two of drunken
decision making.
Sunday's lessons.
The midterm was a violent
pass or fail exam. She
passed, you failed
to look like anything but
your father.

I was
the red skirted juvenile;
I was the first girlfriend;
we held hands
and you saw God in the city line;
we kissed fingers and saw Jesus
giving us the thumbs up.