AFTER DINNER

Blessed is the holy sacrament of smelling 
your hair as we wash the dishes. Sacred 
are the altars of our lips moistened from the last 
glass of wine. With heads bowed 
we consecrate leftovers, the compost pail, 
the portions of fish the cat finds 
miraculously multiplied in his bowl. We genuflect 
to the lower cupboards, kneel to the dust pan, 
prostrate ourselves to carpet stains. 
Hallowed are the crusted pans, the glistening 
drops of oil anointing the stove.
We venerate scraps and crumbs and commit
to catacombs the bones of Saint Chicken.
And uttering the last benediction, we light
the votive candles and in the flickering shadows,
smudged in the holy smoke of sage,
our hands make the signs of loosening buttons
and clasps. Grace falls from our shoulders
and hips, and naked we slip into the holy 
robes of sheets, immersing our sanctified 
bodies in reverent and thankful prayer.



© 2003 by Richard W. Todd

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