PROCESSIONAL
by Kim Noriega
Paris is walking me while I am walking
like a lover guiding me, gentle
arm draped across my too stiff shoulder.
Paris is walking me like a mother cradling
her child distraught
with some colic or another back and
forth walking me to comfort.
It is almost time, noon, when the
hands of the clock come to pray
dearly beloved,
I am walking head held high, heart
pounding, walking in my chest down the path
They can't see me yet.
