Sunday after Sunday

What has replaced the pews and black light of Church

is now the iridescent chicken fat shared by all markets in all the world

We mark our slots, pay the owner Bubba, unload the vans

We wear gloves, even in the summer, because even in the summer

our mornings are pierced with cold

We sell second-hand toasters,

naked Barbie dolls, lavender glittery belts

We speak what you speak

The Corningware plates we sell ‘for good price’ can hold

sushi, paella, catfish, latkes

For the manicure kit, the teenage girls all ask ‘How much?’

We are trained as audio mirrors: ‘how much?’

An upturned high heel surfaces in a pile of baby clothes

A sweater, bald at the elbows, Ralph Lauren

Sunday after Sunday

We help our mothers

We play in the parking lot by the chain-linked fence

next to the Day’s Inn

We push our noses inside the metal diamonds and smell

the rich kids splashing in the buttery chlorine of the pool

We look back

We look forward to pupusas in Chelsea

but only if the teenage girl

comes back for the manicure kit