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My great-grandmother taught
my father to salt his beer
and sip off the head, laugh
when it caught in his mustache
like foam on a beach. He used to stumble
half-drunk behind his brother's guitar,
cradling his violin like his first child
when they played Get Back.
His fingers feathers on the bow
as it flashed across the strings,
tip heading for heaven, frog for hell.
body of Christ, blood of Christ.
Now his fingers are light on the rim
of a cup of Welch's and water. Head
is bowed. I watch him lift the loaf
of bread to heaven and break it,
slow, pulling the two halves
apart the way I've always imagined John pulling
Mary away from her son's bloody feet.
Watch him drop bits of bread
into waiting hands like bowls.
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