Your cousins, a few friends
line up in the pew. Your brother—
absent. He stole from you,
lied that you locked
your cupboards to starve him,
tried to con five G for burial
when he wasn’t dead.
The priest doesn’t know you,
absolves you.
I take the cruets,
go through the motions
of Communion,
recall your dread
of Christ’s sacrifice, crying out
in the Garden of Gethsemane
take this cup away from me.
All your life, trying to push
your father’s bitter draught
away, so you wouldn’t
be scourged like him.