Visiting the Vatican on an Empty Stomach

Vatican City smells like a crowded bus.
I read somewhere that Michelangelo never wanted to paint
the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel;
I think about him as I shuffle my feet and look up. 
I imagine the weight of a paintbrush in my hand.
I imagine gritted teeth and sore fingers.

This ceiling is immortal.  
Michelangelo will always be lying on his back, staring up, 
his breath heavy, his brushstrokes slow and weary.
His shoulders will always ache. He will always feel alone.
There will always be photographs and fingers pointing
and Michelangelo wanting to go home.

Adam, from his place on the ceiling, tells me that
it has been so long since divine creation
that he barely remembers the moment himself. He says,
at one point I could feel it, the memory of God’s touch
sweet like honey. He says do you 
remember? I lie and tell him that I do. He smiles.

I stare God in the face. 
I wonder when I will be back.
My footsteps make no sound when I leave.

​Visiting Home

The first take-off tasted like pie crust, the 
layover was all twitching leg and anticipation,
the second landing smelled like smoke. 
And now, here. A dull ache. Everything I touch a 
distant memory. Every hallway a ghost story.

I remember where it all used to fit. 
The curtains we picked out on my second day of
high school, the jar full of my favorite pens, 
a sloppy vase from ceramics class. I remember
the stench of pale blue paint drying over
thin walls.  So heavy, this feeling-fingers
pressed against aching forehead, the beginning of
an asthma attack.          

Give me clear directions. It has been so long.
Meet me at the stoplight.
Give me a second or two to catch up. Tuck me
in at night, hold my hand and tell me the familiar
stories from those days of stillness and ease.
God, I barely recognize this
place. God, I know this place
in my bones.

Hannah Siobhan is a high school student currently living in Minnesota. She loves slam poetry and every dog in the world.