| Oremus (Let us Pray) What is the true call of the mocking bird? Ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meam (To God, the joy of my youth) Ancient Latin memorized. We do not know the meaning, We are heathens in training, Cassocks on top, denim beneath with Holes in the knees, pocket full of marbles. Prepare the vestments, light the candles. We’re saints in training? Scolded for pouring too much water, Not enough wine. Et introibo ad altare Dei: ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meam. (And I will go to the altar of god, to God, the joy of my youth.) 6 AM mass, serving half asleep, There at our parents bidding, Preserving their place in heaven. Offer it up for the poor souls in purgatory. “Tell your mother I’ll come tomorrow for breakfast.” “You'll get a ride home, can't beat that.” We would rather walk the mile, Than smell stale priest. Maybe he’ll get a silverfish in his cheerios. Oremus (Let us pray) But breakfast serves the fondest memory, Of a toaster that toasts one side at a time, "Bet I can fix that." Monsieur offers, But soon sets the screwdriver aside and asks "Marie, what does your husband do?" "Oh, he's an electrical engineer." She cheerfully replies. We spit milk from our noses, Giggles erupting like motor scooter exhaust. "Time for school boys, best be on your way." Memento etiam, Domine, famulorum famularumque tuarum. (Remember also, Lord, Your servants and handmaids.) Mother will be pleased. Let drop to the ladies, in the Alter Society. “You’ll never guess what Monsieur said...” But it’s the inquisition for me. Trapped, a coyote gnawing at its leg. “How are you doing in school?” OK I guess. “Are you a help to your mother?” I stay out and play. “Have you thought about the priesthood?” Silence. “I didn’t see you at confession last Saturday.” Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. (Through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault) On special feast days, solemn high mass, From St. Ana’s Parish, The veteran servers come, With expertise we’re told to envy, But who’s irreverence we soon admire. They’re just like us. sneaking altar wine, Inattentive and bored, with aching knees. Draftees longing for discharge papers. Kyrie eleison, Kyrie Eleison, Christe eleison. (Lord have mercy on us, Lord have mercy on us, Christ have mercy on us.) Monsignor interrupts the mass, hisses, “Herbert, stop playing with the candle wax.” His attention again to the Eucharist, And his back to us, Herbert Michael Bernard, His mothers redeemer, the enviable altar boy, Raises his middle finger And flips the Monsignor the bird. Sed libera nos a malo. (Deliver us from evil) In church! During solemn high mass! Take cover. Surely a lighting bolt will Kill this mortal sinner. No. Nothing. We giggle. After mass, behind the church, Swiped from our mothers purse, We celebrate with Lucky Strikes for everyone. Dominus Vobiscum. (May the Lord be with thee) Et cum spiritu tuo. (And with thy spirit.) Warren Crane 2004 © Used with permission of the author. |