We sleep on the heated floors of the church’s
nursery room every winter because
something is wrong with my mother’s
green card application. We stack
Spice Girls gum and tear-jerker gumballs
each day to prepare for the trip back
to Indiana. The dogs chained outside the gates
yip as my brother and I gaze
past the sanctuary’s one-way mirror. In the ocean
of red carpet and crosses, a lone woman
prays so hard that I swear I can hear her through
this soundproof glass. She sways forward
and back like a thick spring uncoiled. More women
enter and when perms are loosened,
dabbing at their eyes, I realize that the woman
is my mother. She can’t see me but I duck
into the sleeping bag. In the car ride back home,
our bodies still buzz. We munch on vanilla
crème cookies from the gas station and make crosses
with the Slim Jims in our laps. When we hit
empty corn fields, we hit our heads against the seat
imagining ourselves chanting Ju-Yuh, Father, Our Father.
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