Sacrament: Two

This is what I remember about Comunion
the white dress
that my mother made,
the veil with the pearl that hung on my forehead
like the nameless princess in the Neverending Story.

I studied really hard,
my mother drilled me
every night on my
Ave Marias and Padre Nuestros
and even the sign of the cross-
which incidentally is longer in Spanish.

It was May- that's comunion season-
cloudy, winds whipping my dress around
so that in the pictures I look
like a jellyfish breathing.

I had to fast and Ruben drank his
licuado extra slow to torture me.
And when I took into my mouth
the flesh of the Lord
he tasted like paper.
I let him dissolve on
my tongue
because you're not supposed to
chew God with your teeth.
When he was soggy as a Kleenex
I swallowed and walked out
Glowing,
Jesus was in my belly.

Sacrament: One

I can't remember my ow baptism
so I'll write about my Godson's
that's right, I'm a nina-
that's short for Madrina,
little mother
lesser mother,
small, somehow.

This means that should Matilde and Chavo
dissapear into the Ether, into Oblivion,
Emmanuel would live with us,
his two crazy American aunts.

My sister and I are twins in this
we go to the workshops
in the Sacred Heart chapel
Sister Reina, her name meaning Queen,
explains the pascal mystery,
Life, Death, and Resurrection
My little sister draws a quick breath
and we exchange those looks
sisters have,
we already feel eternal.
In the family home in Mexicali
we dress Emmanuel's squirming body,
he is still new at this living
and doesn't even know he is in a dress.

He is the quietest child in the church,
asleep while the other children scream
itchy in white tulle and afraid of the font,
The priest lights and then extinguishes the Pascal candle,
it will be put away to use at our funerals-
I think the children realize this
and weep openly.

Because that is the deal, see, the mustard seed,
the grain of wheat,
the dying that is for certain,
that is inevitable and begins the day of your first breath