Communion #3

by DRM

D’s Com­mu­nion

One time when I was a young man
I caught the scent of the priest
Through the tan­nins of the com­mu­nion wine.

He smelled like my father
On the morn­ing that he buried my mother.

I had just mar­ried. My new wife
Kept two paces behind me
In the com­mu­nion line.

Tak­ing the host was still a new thing for her.

Father kept the cologne on a shelf by the toi­let.
He was par­tic­u­lar in his things.
Mother was more disorderly.

The scent made me think of Mother
As an angel. I could sense God’s love,
Even though he pun­ished her in life.

My hand some­times strays to my lips
As I wait in line to take the body and blood
To pre­pare my flesh for a sacred passage

That is a path to abso­lu­tion. Father said Grace
Was given to the wor­thy in a tone
That bespoke con­fi­dence. I am replete
With sin.

Feb 2010

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