Poems from 'The Drowning Fish' ...

Communion.

My mother brings my fathers god to him

in a small leather bag every Sunday morning.

God travels the road snagged in her pocket

smuggled past betting shop & doctors office.

He travels through streets holy incognito

freshly cooked ,dreaming of tasty souls

grace wriggling amongst her shopping.

A last meal served by a mother to some

other mothers son, a-ring-a-roses of Pietas.

God undressed, a white poppy rolled in flour

is eaten unseasoned by snaked tongues, power

and glory, going going gone! She turns the sack

inside out incase a piece of Jesus has hung back,

then tucks gods carrion bag in her top drawer along

with her sympathy cards & the comfort of crumbs.

John G.Hall(c)2003