illumination by Anyssa Kim
illumination
by Anyssa Kim
every Sunday
early rise
we wake and get hustled
and argue before
the long drive
to church.
we always arrive
too early, dressed
in constricting
clothes, my cheap sunday dress
itching
scratch
scratch
why? we go
so i will not become
a heathen;
i must be raised
with proper values.
we’ll pray, genuflect,
and pray.
i start my prayers early
for time to
hurry up.
the church looms atop a cliff
our mother’s shangri-la
hidden behind a long curving
driveway, roller-coaster steep.
we proceed cautiously,
slowly ascend,
the Pontiac’s engine
suffers us with groans
lest we shall all roll backward
and plunge into the rocky sea below
our church, built of dark wood.
grimy stained glass behind
spiderwebs delicately adorning
its windows –
God’s decorative curtains
of His impenetrable
edifice
the heavy door opens
like Lazarus’s tomb
greeting congregants with its internal
aura of melting wax, floating
lights in bright
ruby votives and luminescent cities
constructed of myriad flickering
yellow candles.
air is cottony and thick
from years of dissipated censer-flicking
lingering over the last hundreds
of liturgies
anticipation looms
between crinkling
bible pages and sporadic
phlegm-clearing for
our priest to enter among
the mortals,
he graciously appears,
facing the altar
in his stiff gold Liberace gown
why is he wearing somebody’s
living room drapes?
off to the side, in the corner
mr. conductor hums three
introductory notes for the choir;
our collective seniors clear cobwebs
from their throats
with everyone:
“amen”
they’ll sing in russian.
practically the whole service
is in russian, to the joy of big baba
who proclaims
“otherwise what’s the point?”
of going to a russian church
i don’t understand.
any of it.
i try to follow along
the few phonetics i can read
in the Good Book
but when i finally find my way
someone has suddenly changed the sequence –
has violated my sense of Order –
and i am lost again.
i look to mother,
ask her “where are we?”
she shrugs.
she doesn’t know either.
but we know how to cross ourselves
when everybody else does it
three times in a row,
every time,
because once is not enough:
everyone needs to be accounted for –
the father
the son
the holy spirit
(amen)
when the censer swings,
it’s my favorite part
a dragon’s nostril puffing out
sweet smoke, like cotton candy
melting on my tongue.
i wait for it to come my way,
its delicious burst of incense,
feeling lucky when it does
yet i must be still, quiet,
obedient
like the priest’s wife and 3 children
so Peek Frean extraordinarily serious,
who stand near the altar
proud their father is
Rock Star of the day
“thou shalt honor thy mother and father”
my mother repeats
when i misbehave
i ask “what if i don’t?”
she frowns:
“you’ll burn in hell.”
i consider my options
i pray for many things.
i pray for time to move faster
for the millionth time
but God doesn’t hear.
i am too young
and looking around, realize
there are older people
He must consider.
“when you are in the House of
God, you don’t play around. it’s not
fun and games,
“and if you don’t go to church, you
certainly can’t play
while people are in church praying.”
i question to my Lord:
\italic{are you the same One as hers?}
the censer swings, but
toward the other direction this time
i want to climb into the smoke,
leap with faith into
the temporary wisps
of Heaven.
i am restless
my dress itches my neck
scratch
scratch
i try to follow the others
although i don’t know what’s going on
i am already expert –
stand, cross myself three times,
kneel,
cross again three times, stand,
amen
stand, cross myself
three times, kneel, cross
three times again,
stand, amen
stand, cross
three times,
kneel, cross
three times, stand,
amen
the arms of my watch face
push themselves through the fog,
exhausted too
i hold my breath
for fun,
i clock myself
48 seconds
53 seconds
62 seconds
45 seconds
[gasp]
mother Big Eyes
gives me the Look
“wait til i get you outside.”
my dirty eye begets
a dirty eye
begets another
she also comes equipped
with her automatic swat
weapon
i am continuously monitored
(no less)
by holy icons of gold –
every saint staring down at me
from the walls.
in unison.
i hear them lamenting
candles hang around them
eternally burning –
I pray for them.
\italic{how do you get any sleep?}
during hymns
i attempt to match faces
to each voice in the choir
i am drawn to a tall man
with the double deep bass voice,
one thick reliable pillar
of church my ear can lean against
i am restless
i fidget
scratch
“let us pray”
fortune is bestowed upon me
when the divine sermon begins
i can sit
on the hard wooden bench.
and at last, i too can understand something
(the sermon half in english).
i listen intently
for the moral of the story
(being a good student and all)
and when it ends
my legs wake up
the choir sings \italic{Hallelujah}
we all line up
to cross our selves
kiss the cross
kiss the priest’s soft beard
and the best part
fill my rumbling stomach
with fresh church bread
set out upon a shiny silver platter
and warm, sweet red wine
offered as Christ’s blood
98.6 degrees farenheit or so
it trickles down my parched young throat
but –not too vampirically –
i am full of joy.
i think mother will be happy at last
with my enthusiasm:
“this is yummy. can i go back
and get some more?”
“Don’t embarrass me.”
the doors open.
everyone scrambles
(or creaks) out.
daylight scorches my eyes.
fresh air has become
offensive and common.
our duty is rewarded with
a russian smorgasbord:
stuffed cabbage
potato latkes
meat pies
cakes
i fill my plate
but we cannot eat yet.
the priest must arrive
to bless the food.
my stomach protests
all this waiting
but i must learn
patience, endurance
of more russian singing,
more russian speaking,
more fidgeting
more pinching
more hair yanking
i discover my shiny new shoes
have been devilishly scratched
by all the gravel
on the pathway
the birds are merry
when i toss them crumbs
of sanctified bread.
O merciful me.
finally i get to eat
to maximum capacity.
i fill myself, desperately
wanting to leave: i know
Casey Kasem’s grindy voice is still
on the radio
i don’t want to miss
the number one song
on America’s Top Forty Countdown
but i hope it’s not
Christopher Cross
gone Sailing again
it is early afternoon,
the day eaten up.
i reflect on the sermon
how we must be good Christians
i ask mother
“can we go now to feed the homeless?”
“no” she replies
“but why?” i protest
she scowls at me:
“because we don’t have time.”