less of the mirror

I listen to jazz in the basement of the church in the city where a friend used to sing as a cantor for the choir. sometimes he sang in latin. sometimes a group of us would fill a pew to cheer him on. I remember the excitement in the pastor’s voice when he’d see us from the lectern: young open minds searching for salvation he can serve up with a sermon. the more of us that came along, the harder he’d play to us in his preaching. one Sunday he even swore, dividing the congregation with gasps and stifled laughter. at the end of the service he would guard the exit and we could never dodge the handshake or the ‘will we see you next week?’ at the door. between jazz sets in the basement, he stumbles through jokes onstage and I see myself in the clown trying too hard to entertain and make a case for coming back.

the lights shine on someone I love on the stage. she makes the trumpet sing and leaves the crowd cheering for more. between songs she makes them laugh without trying and no one wants the set to end. they say she’s the real deal and ask me her name and I am lucky to have people to feel proud of. I sneak out the door when I see the pastor caught in talks with someone else.

in the morning my eye is delicate and heavy. a bump emerges on the lid to block out fractions of the day. I feel it grow through the tabs of tasks and cups of tea that make my day. online they tell me not to touch and wash my hands with soap. I tell myself it’s nice to see less of the mirror and think of something else.