Communion (non-metrical)

Posted 03-19-2001 at PFFA.


(revised version)


Communion

Adrenalized with fondness,
my relatives arrive.
Uncle Jack ruffles my hair,
gives me the ten-dollar handshake,
and lets Aunt Cap tie
the worst Windsor in Christendom.
The never-again shoes pinch,
black socks new-thin and cold.
Mom fusses with cuffs and my shirt tuck.

There are eight of us, football buddies
dressed identically. We pace aisle and nave,
rookies learning routes, a few boys
set in a garden line of gliding girls,
each in a dress unique to its awkward flower.
The hymn, gravity of Domus Dei, slows
the procession to lock-step. The Stations
pass, grim scenes in woodcut: Romans,
stumbles, stoning, shroud. Above them,
Joseph's halo reflects my father's
camera flash. Colored-glass patterns blur.

In the line to receive, I roll up
my sleeves. "This is the play.
You, run the post." Past limp ties
and giggling dresses, I fake
at the convent door, cut to
mid-parking lot, turn. The ball,
amazingly spiral, thuds into my
graceless clutch. I bobble it, then trip,
but lock it in for the reception,
the completion. My feet ache, but a chorus
of whoops greets my chicken-walk strut.
I spike the ball before the head thumping
and hand slaps start.


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(original version)


Communion

Adrenalized with fondness, my relatives arrive. Compulsory
hugs for the priest complete the greeting, and the preparatory
prayer huddle breaks. Uncle Jack ruffles my hair, gives me
the ten-dollar handshake, and lets Aunt Cap tie the worst

Windsor in Christendom. Mom fusses with my uneasy
attire. The never-again shoes pinch, black socks new-thin
and cold. My stiff white shirt is force tucked unevenly
into the beltbuckle shackled pants. There are eight of us,

football buddies, rookies learning routes. Dressed identically,
we pace through the nave-spliced architecture, a few boys scattered
alphabetically in a garden line of gliding girls, each one in a dress
unique to its awkward flower. The hymn, the gravity of Domus Dei,

slows the procession to lock-step. The Stations pass, grim scenes
in woodcut: Romans, stumbles, stoning, shroud. The congregation,
oddly somber, mumbles psalms. The flash of Dad’s camera reflects
off circular halos, saints in cut colored glass, and the patterns blur

as I step up to the line to receive. I roll up my sleeves. "This is
the play. You, run the post." Past the pile of limp ties, past the slender
giggling dresses, with an improvised fake at the convent door, I cut
to mid-parking lot. I turn and the ball, amazingly perfectly spiral,

thuds into my graceless clutch. I bobble it, then trip, but lock it in
as I step across the flagpole goal line. A chorus of whoops greets
my aching feet chicken walk strut dance, and I spike the ball
before the helmetless head thumping and hand slaps start.

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Early workshop stuff. What can I say? The revise is much better, anyway.