Confessional

Chris Gavaler

I used to to be a Catholic
and every Sunday morning
I would get the body of God
stuck to the roof of my mouth.
And a shot of spirits to wash him down
to sit with breakfast.
I would watch for him in the exhale
of eggs and cold cereal.
I thought if I pressed my palms tightly enough,
I could catch him
like cupped fireflies,
I peeked 
knowing they would free 
with fingers pulled back,
afriad of fluorescent smear,
I peeked to know if I had more
than the glow of window stained dust
floating invisibly up
disappearing in the buttress lights
like moths.