by Julie Allyn Johnson
bless me father for I may have sinnedsprawled out on the morning deck,two-tone TREX soaking up some Sunday sun—I’ll move once I get too hotor too uncomfortable but for nowI like it here, warmth beneath my bodylistening to the starlings battling for suetin any one of the feeders hanging in the honey locust.used to be, when I was a young adult,I’d succumb to guilt and wend my wayto St. James for 10:30 mass.sometimes, I’d feel better for the effortbut usually, I didn’t. still, I’d been seenand that was often enough. it was the point,after all, was it not? I mean, who freelyand enthusiastically sits through all those verses,the ups, the downs, the kneeling on hard oak planks,the dry sermons, the Faith of Our Fathers,the Ave Marias—who does thatwhen the slow heat of Ra firing through one’s bodyfeels as good as almost anything, most days even better.