David King


At the Baptist church on Confederate Avenue,
I got restless waiting for my aunt,
Wandered off to look around.
I passed some solemn deacons in the hall,
Then slid down the banister to the basement.
That Sunday, they had the Lord’s Supper,
And I was too young, I did not believe
Of my own accord, and I’d only been allowed
To watch while others ate the wafers,
Drank from little cups.
I’d thought of lunch at my grandmother’s,
Though all around me everyone smelled old.
Down in the basement, with my aunt’s voice
Calling down the stairs, I found
The polished silver communion trays.
Like the miracle I’d heard that morning,
They were brimming with leftovers,
So I ate handfuls of the crackers,
Gulped down several cups of juice,
Relished all that was forbidden
As I gorged myself on grace.


Artwork on this page:
Detail of Lamp unto my feet
77.5 x 28" oil on wooden door, 2013
Irene Hardwicke Olivieri

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