The priest
was Haitian and unpopular, sent
from Halifax to lift the
church’s sinking numbers.
Someone made a joke about
colonialism.
Someone made a joke about
how he choked on certain words:
roshery, Simmeritin,
Good instead of God.
He liked his vestments arranged
in a reliable order, would
reach for them blindly, one
finger on his scripture.
He had me come in early to
heat and light the room, dust
the Christ-bearing frames
of the Passion. On the Sunday
of the crash, he
decided not to mention it, said
Those people
in the ocean, those people
are not us.
