Who dwells in the crumbs we leave behind?
Who wafts from the steam that escapes
A freshly uncovered pot sizzling on the stove?
Who bubbles up in the glasses of lemonade that
We pour out, our offerings of hospitality carried
In the cold crystal, bearing the semblance of libation.
Break bread with me, my family,
And we will dine on the promises written before
We came into this world.
Groaning oak floors under bodies that are alive,
Raising glory to the powers that be.
Touch hands with all who pass the threshold,
Baptismal waters laced in your flesh because
God's mysteries are revealed in our gatherings.
This home has seen us come and go,
Has witnessed the tears, the joy, the anger, the strife,
The bodies wrapped together in gratitude.
We have all run our hands upon its worn walls,
Scratched mementos and inscriptions for whoever
Graces this roof long after we've been gone.
This home will know our palms and fingerprints
Like it knew the ghosts that once lived in it.
Our table is our altar;
Every pot, pan, bowl, casserole dish, and Tupperware
Sustenance for the temples we reside within.
Plates passing hands as we bear witness to our ceremony,
This exaltation of one another our church.
The old-school records are our hymns,
Generational teachings encapsulated in the crooning tunes
Of people whom we've adopted as our saints and angels.
Who dwells in the crumbs we leave behind
On the table?
Who dwells in the soft songs we sing to each other
In moments like these,
Contentedness humming the strands of our hair,
Eternal love transferred in our hugs as we parted once more.
In the twilight that we leave behind when we go home to glory,
Who takes our hands and leads us there?
YOU ARE READING
In Lieu of the Expressionist
PoetryInfluenced by art, mythology, folklore, and alternative expressions, these poems are the culmination of growth over three years. Having had the chance the participate in a creative writing mentorship program, win an award (National Gold Medal in Poe...
