Kat Fabian

I hope we both show up late to your party in heaven

 

I think of the gold cross around his neck and how I would like it better

if it were dangling in my face.

I think about replacing it                        with my arms.

 

We went to a thrift store. He held my hand with my thumb on the outside

(there isn’t a wrong way to hold hands, but that felt right).

We looked at a painting of Jesus.

I told him          I’d only buy it if

Jesus was at our last supper,      female and black.

He had a stupid grin,                 and his eyes rolled

like your sex dice on a hotel mattress. The

night you got a room with two beds. One to

sleep,                the other           to play. But I

fell asleep in one, while you had your back

turned towards me        in the other.

 

When I was a little girl, I wore white sun dresses to church.

I was put in straw hats with felt flowers.

And I watched the older kids speak at the altar.

 

He was one of them,                 at his church back home.

 

A lector will raise one arm for the response of the church.

The same way I could pin both of his back.

I don’t know the word of the lord;

I could improvise.

 


Kat Fabian is currently a senior at Indiana University of Pennsylvania. She is an English major with a track in Writing Studies.


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