if I squint my eyes tight
Citgo refineries twinkle and tower
like cathedrals in the distance
smell of salt at the city line
dad always under
the hood of his Mustang
oil shapes like butterflies
on the thighs of his Levis
every Sunday he takes his
boat on the water to pray
mom insists on petticoats for me
I scratch my thighs the whole of mass
stand stand stand
kneel kneel kneel
peace be with you and also with you
I wait patiently, quietly, because I know
there will be barbacoa tacos after
we take ocean drive to grandma’s
white frothy waves race us to the finish
I crank open the backseat window
sea breeze kisses my cheeks
stick my whole head out
the way my Labrador taught me
we make a pit stop at the T-heads
in case dad comes home empty handed
I can already smell the cornmeal
hear the hiss of oil when batter hits the pan
our Sunday mass
