Half past two Wednesdays Catholic
”a fair number” would rise up
in silence when their special
buzzer jolted our Queens
classroom, summons a good
hour before our scheduled
parole to their midweek Saint
Teresa’s spiritual sparkle, a canny
swap of Byrd’s tale of his schlep
over the Antarctic or Vasco de Gama’s
spice routes for Jesus matinees.
As if aged or made wiser by this in-
cantation, they moved off with short
grainy strokes, an etiquette faith
associates with a seasoned squad
of pallbearers primed to meet
the threat of church front steep
slippery stairs, death’s dance
swift bitsy two-step sole
shuffle spilling soft sand-
paper sounds on gathered grievers
below, cargo remaining aloft,
upright. “Early dismissal
for religious instruction,”
they call it. I envied them
their discharge before our
time and think of them now
in the wake of abrupt dismissal,
return tomorrow a fool’s
gold dream, of my daughter, 24.
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