Spring 2010

Table of Contents - Vol. VI, No. 1


Poetry    Fiction    Reviews   

Michael Monroe



We took CCD classes
in the Catholic Church
so our parents could get us confirmed
like good little worker bees.

We were there for the food,
chile and green bean casseroles,
and to see what kind of trouble
we could create
in the cracks between sacraments.

One day in class,
a boy stretched a condom
over his sinful head,
then blew it up
and let it fly
through the indifference
behind the teacher’s back.
It buzzed around the room
like an irritated rubber insect.

We spoke with the voice of God,
hiding in the balcony
above the dark sanctuary,
scaring unsuspecting children
who walked among the holy elements.

We hid beneath the pews
when the billy club priests
searched for us like predatory cats.

When all was said and done,
we were all confirmed.
I saw condom-head
in line between the other hellions,
waiting for the priest to pat his back.

At church, I always wanted to sit
where I could see
the two hot blondes
in the front row,
hair glowing
like the light of angels.


© Michael Monroe



Poetry    Fiction    Reviews   

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