Cupping lips with mitted hands to summon us
inside, she offers fresh-baked bread wafting
over our clamor,
some of us debating decades-old wounds
such as who broke the china Mom left behind,
priceless, irreplaceable,
some of our hands guiltily empty because we forgot
promised sides. And there, new neighbors won’t stop
laughing
from barstools about inside jokes they won’t explain,
and we don’t understand. We miss her pug, passed
away
too soon last fall, regret snapping when fur
blanketed her freshly-vacuumed floors. Still,
from cypress trees
she calls us, even wealthy cousins whispering
about who wore the worst outfits, from her garden
she calls us
as we’re comparing egg hunt harvests, kids yelling
over ten dollar bills. Unveiled in a crowded kitchen
in springtime,
brownies, apple pies, key limes breathe holy
aromas, just-clipped pale hyacinths crowning
her table.
A neighbor cusses through her blessing, his fault
for pushing past me to steal a better seat, gravy
spilling over
his too-thick necktie. Alleuia, Christ rose, can we
eat before we crucify each other? She smiles, says
amen, every year
our table grows. Yes, maybe someone rose, maybe
they didn’t. What I really love is these loaves steaming
as she pushes them
in front of flowers, fitting more plates, pulling
porch chairs for others who might come hungry
out of their tombs.
collection, Songs for the Holy Other. Currently, she is pursuing a Master of Divinity at The University of Dubuque Theological Seminary.
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