She had no idea her godmother had muttered
when the priest asked 'do you renounce Satan
and all his works?'
She was, after all, a two month old,
unable to cobble together memories
or protest at slights like those.
Her mother was too busy praying
her baby's bladder would not let loose
a stream of embarrassment.
And for all the marble accoutrements,
the echoing in the church
chose to omit that telltale white lie.
She found out about little stories like this
at her 21st. Her godmother
and too many wine coolers opened up
to bestow a gift of truth. She felt
like a drunken Sleeping Beauty;
too disconnected to link it together
but tangibly sensical nonetheless.