I remember at two or three,
looking out from between the
pews whose shoulders
reached my crown, like a fish
peeking from its protective plant 
The crooked knees of my mother 
or father or an older sister 
resting in sturdy right angles 
behind me.
 
That was the size of the 
universe then. 
The shoulder wood of a pew 
back served as my launching 
place
 
Where I conspired to know 
the mysterious traffic of 
deacons passing treats in 
silver trays.