For Theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven

When I was fourteen,
I found myself
seated in the second row of Room 205
plaid skirt pressed,
white oxford shirt buttoned,
navy knee socks stretched to impossible heights.

This was Theology with Father,
the period after lunch.
This was why I wished each meal of my freshman year could be the Last Supper.

I never spoke his name during confession,
but I thought it
and hoped God would make the leap.
I thought it had to be a sin to dread the presence of a priest.
I wondered, though, why God had hired him in the first place.
He sweat too much,
was always paying too close attention when girls would cross their legs –
or when they wouldn’t.

His classroom was the worst variety of boys’ club:
“I’m all for the women’s movement –
as long as it’s walking in front of me to the rectory” –
and they all laughed, some of them uncomfortably,
growing red all the way to their fresh haircuts,
trying hard to be one of the guys.

Together, they casually violated commandments of decency and trust,
found communion in colorless jokes
about what men did before accepting the stiff, white collar –
about why women shouldn’t be priests:
“too many lipstick stains on the altar cloth.”
They were his disciples,
his podium the burning bush –

as we pushed ourselves into plastic seats,
skirts sweating,
arms crossed against vulnerable new chests,
eyes fastened to a textbook that wasn’t loud enough.

Bless me, Father, for I have survived you.
It’s been fifteen years since you made me regret being a girl.