Outside Voices

At the still point, the moment
turned vivid: the priest’s white square

at his throat left a mild abrasion.
His shoes shone in the dark way

wet stones shine. His waxy hands
inspected each other. Send her away,

he said. I’ll give you a reference.
Outside, the voices of children sounded

like the outside voices of children —
muffled, unreal. Now there would be

one less of them. My old life, which
had seemed, until that moment, new,

was taken by one great inhalation
into the lungs of the priest — a smoke

made of me. I did not speak. I deserved.
They murmured about cover stories,

tickets, arrangements on the other end.
On the other side of the window, a young

house finch nicked at the ledge. The rectory
cat stretched and arched in a shrinking patch

of sun. Down below, in the chapel, I knew
women were crossing themselves, plunking

dimes into the candle bank, all of them
down on their knees praying.