Sunday Dinner

My grandfather, in a bib and tucker,/ says grace, to expel/the Deus and the demon within me./The vault in the altar /holds cold bones that once burned ,/and when it snows,/we watch from the market/our rooftop rubbed raw by rain./Obliged, inching a way to freedom,/ we answered duty seldom. Result: a descent, in mortal light ,/to examine our lifetimes, /bound up in sheets; interred,/we catch ourselves gloat

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s