My sister and I are terribly aware
of the wilting flowers, reclusive daddy long-legs,
and how early the sun dips out of view. This could be,
our last weekend camping in the backyard.

We have knees to scrape,
gravel against skin. We long for more—
green stains on our shoes, and find ourselves
dancing under the rainbow of every sprinkler.

But here, tucked between pews,
bibles heavy on our laps,
we mourn the passing summer day.
Congregated in stale air,
families, friends, and first-goers sway,
clap and stomp. Behind us,
an operatic woman mutilates hymn.

My sister casts a glance toward me. I stifle giggles,
slide my tongue along the grooves of my teeth.
Force my trembling lips to a proper
British O, but when my belly clenches
a grin branches out under my nose.
My sister says the woman’s strength lies in silent prayer.
We erupt into laughter like it’s our way of breathing.