“Aging (Study No. 2)” by Abigail Beaudelle
Born on Good Friday
I skipped the mass on Ash Wednesday,
my forehead unblemished by the priest’s thumbprint.
I ate seven meatball subs during Holy Week
while any good Catholic would’ve been fasting,
snuggling up with their hunger pains, constipated.
Instead, I held The Last Supper in my own kitchen.
Judas was drinking my beer and belching prayers
while Paul lost at solitaire, aching for a frozen corndog.
In the background, while watching the Red Sox game,
a commercial for Catholics Come Home came on the TV.
A clean-cut white guy, sober and fat, attested to how
reconnecting with Christ, like Jesus was his Facebook friend,
changed his life. Meanwhile, in a still-frame on the screen
beside him, there was a picture of a slovenly bearded man,
thinner with the same mouth—his former heathen self
with bloodshot eyes and hair like weeds around a crucifix.
“There he is,” I said to Peter, who was strictly a pothead,
“our thirteenth apostle, and he’s bringing the ham.”
But we all realized that thirteen was an unlucky number,
and Lent was never my thing, so we called for a pizza.
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