parade

Vendor

Flags for sale! Flags for sale!

Come and catch the wind!

Catch it dance despite this nylon

Catch it high above our heads

Hear the bend of sound and silence

the clash of metal and mortar

Here the veil is twisted, turned

this angle exposes its threads

Flags for sale, flags for sale

We can haggle over price

We keep costs low for memories crafted

for this patriotism to spread

Fustanella

Alex was told to wear his fustanella before he could learn to read.

The YiaYias praised him, “Little soldier boy! Take your solo in this dance! 

Let us shower you in $1s and $5s and cheers for representing our past!”

March forward, little soldier boy, no blood coats these skirts

Maybe some snot, maybe some sweat, but no dirt

bleached clean from battle wounds and the weald of weapons 

Was this costume custom-made? Or hand-stitched many years ago?

Past down or processed? Kept in closets or warehouses?

When did it arrive to be wrinkled by a child’s hands?

These skirts, do you know why you wore them?

Was that ever explained?

Count to three, count to twelve

The dance has already begun

March of the Priests

Hymnals float before me

blessing the street for passersby to come

These prayers in Greek, of sacrifice and shepherds

sound familiar enough to jog memory

yet remain too distant to recognize

Never knowing more than the Books’ greatest hits

I doubted I was one to be saved 

Baptized 40 days past the 4th

Baptized as a birthright, not a choice

I still get lost in stained glass windows

too distracted to lend an ear to the words of God

the message never lands, too soured by its arrival

by words of scorn and wills of ill

by hypocrites, cowards, and cons

Can the wicked be saved

when we disagree on who we view the wicked to be?

Or was that never open to interpretation? 

Just a tale, an old story incorrectly told

for spectical, for sale