At the Altar 

​

I take

a thin pressed

crumb honed like a razor

and chase it down with a sip of wine

coming just a little

too soon.

 

The priest’s hand

is on my daughter’s head and she is

blessed with a three-in-one solemnity adding up

to You.

 

In this broken space,

the man Jesus being offered

to mute lips and worn-out hands shaped

for a gift, somehow You

live here.

 

Companion

in the light, the dark

of life’s long journey—Abba—

You find us out.  These simple things

no chalice of words

can hold.