Churchgoers

My brother dumps raw
sugar into his 
mouth from a small 
plastic tube he hides 
in his pocket. Dad’s singing
can be heard 
even in the front row. I
stare at the Cheerio 
on the floor and wonder
if it would be 
safe to eat. Church 
carpet is holy 
so it must not 
have germs. Worried 
that my mom will 
see, I 
leave it there.

The clock hands climb 
slowly uphill, they drag 
like my tired 
eyes and my dad’s 
tired eyes. I nudge 
him awake. Next week 
I will sit on 
the end, suck sugar, 
eat holy 
Cheerios, and nap outside 
of my mother’s 
view. But this week Stephen beats 
me to the end and I, 
the smallest, am stuck 
between my parents. Her 
eyes pinching me reverent. His eyes 
unopened, dreaming 
until it is 
time to sing.