Skeptic
by Anna Serio
I, or someone who knows me very well
walked (accidentally) into a
Cathedral of Contemporary Truths.
The nun at the desk knew what I was about:
“DON’T PULL OUT THAT CARTESIAN SWORD”
she shrieked & I stepped back because I hate
when women shriek (I never do).
The screens on the walls played projections
of myself, of my everything &
I started when I felt her behind
me. “They’re real,
you know,” she breathed—Oh I know.
Her habit was some kind of
black-on-black & (lo!) I remembered
the darkness of my
pants my shirt my closet,
that collection of negative light.
holy mother!
her face could have said
“welcome to your context”
So, we sat
adjacent to the altar (which was full
of moving air) &
watched, indefinitely, because
what else is there
to do?