Carol Alexander

In Issue 7 on July 1, 2011 at 12:48 pm


The day room is meet for prayer,
silver cup and host arranged
on the altar where the soup,
ham and bean, was spooned and spilled,
where the trembling hands and souls
proclaim this is my body,
consecrated with the years
of toil, tear, and midnight feeds.

From the window where I stand,
the sun transmits its blessing
as the fog rolls back to sea,
the communicants backlit,
rhododendron scraping the panes.
If there was wrong, time forgets
the mild terrors of trespass,
the very names of the wronged.

At dusk, all is swept away,
the visitors¹ hats and gloves
hastily retrieved and donned;
dinner trays replace the wine.
This is meat quotidian,
which must last us for the week.
What work, then, is left to do?
Breathing, in this place, is all.

In the parting of the ways
peace be with you, and you.


Carol Alexander has a few other poems coming out this year in Chiron Review, Cave Moon Press, and The Whistling Fire.


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