Communion and the Ex Preacher’s Kid

As children we devoured the leftover
Communion bread and grape juice at
The back of the church while the adults
Worked, sweeping the floor, putting away
The folding chairs. Counting the offering
In groups of two or three, so as not to be
Too tempted by the loose bills and change.

We are not children any longer. Indeed, we
Don’t even live in the same city. But just the
Other day I picked up a bottle of grape juice,
And a fresh loaf of bread and, with a whisper
Of gratitude on my lips, devoured it. It’s been
Many years since I’ve known the back rooms
Of a church with the intimacy of childhood. I
Can no longer claim to know every nook and
Cranny of any church building – even the ones
I once knew have, no doubt, shifted with time.

But this much I do know as I tear into the bread,
Dipping it into the juice before I eat: certain things,
Certain tastes or sounds or textures can be firmly
Rooted in the thin places in the world, those placed
In which the spirit world is just that much closer.


I'm not quite satisfied with this poem yet...I may post a revision of it later on.