In manus tuas, Domine [after Thomas Tallis]
Into your hands, vicar,
lower your staff into your hands,
hold me still in your hands
release me from your hands.

Your hands are made of idealism,
an idolatry of ghosts, my
father says your name

I spit on it Domine,
spit on the good book,

take the eucharist into your hands
break the bread – like the body -
above your head, the communal
wafer dry yeast on my tongue,

grandmother is in the kitchen getting
the gelatin left shapely
on the counter in the condominium of
my childhood

the portrait of the Pope hangs
overhead in warning, we
will not speak, just
sip the wine and once
again be absolved
of her displeasure.