Communion.


My mother brings my fathers god to him
in a small leather bag every Sunday morning.
God travels the road snagged in her pocket
smuggled past betting shop & doctors office.

He travels through streets holy incognito
freshly cooked ,dreaming of tasty souls
grace wriggling amongst her shopping.
A last meal served by a mother to some
other mothers son, a-ring-a-roses of Pietas.

God undressed, a white poppy rolled in flour
is eaten unseasoned by snaked tongues, power
and glory, going going gone! She turns the sack
inside out incase a piece of Jesus has hung back,
then tucks gods carrion bag in her top drawer along
with her sympathy cards & the comfort of crumbs.


John G.Hall(c)2003