From Poetic Asides: “For today’s prompt, write a hiding poem. You could be hiding. Someone else could be hiding. Something could be hidden. Or maybe there could even be a hidden meaning. I’m flexible with any interpretations poets want to put on the prompt. Have at it.”


The very last time he wet his pants
Pablo was seven years old.
entering the church he found his
mother and Father Dominic
locked in a writhing embrace
the Father’s hand blessing
his mother’s behind.

Father stiffened
gave Pablo a piercing look
narrowing his eyes just so
uttered a spell he could not hear
and Pablo was paralyzed
motionless as La Virgen in the vestibule
at once wet and warm.
Mother approached him
took him by the hand
and encased in silence
they returned to the car.

The next Sunday at Mass’ end
Father Dominic announced he was moving
to another parish in another country.
Most parishioners were surprised and
openly bemoaned the news.
His mother was silent and transfixed
(a spell Pablo knew too well).
For the second time that week she
reached for his hand
neither crossing herself nor genuflecting
and they returned to the car
in silence
for the very last time.