Grace

she stares at strained smiles set in

stained glass, and listens to the spokesman

chanting in a monotone, his voice

echoing off the high

high stone walls; the room is

large, open, as if it were designed

to feel empty

even when rows of rigid pews are filled

with straight backs, staring

straight ahead.

her mother pinches her leg, pulls

at the fabric of her pants because they are

too tight; her mother

slaps her fidgeting hands and she tucks

them under her thighs as the

only voice in the room proclaims we are made

in the image of love.