In this pew,
listening to words rooted in rite
I wait. I wait as I sit by my husband
who moves his lips to words
I can recite as if in sleep.
These days neither of us kneels anymore,
although we incline our heads, as if.
I listen to him murmur the responses;
I listen as he murmurs the creed
I believe in
and I am silent and I wait.
I wait for the one divine thing
that brings me here:
a thin dry wafer and a sip of sweet wine,
this austere repast shared at the rail
with strangers and friends kneeling,
baring their scraped soles,
while I chew, hard, on this weekly morsel
I cannot help but hunger for.
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