by Don Thompson
The old priest must have died
soon after that Sunday,
his last crack at the Eucharist.
What was his name?
But I still hear his voice,
already faint and far away,
sounding like he had cellophane in his lungs.
We followed along in our prayer books
as he got lost now and then.
The stained glass Jesus behind him
had blue eyes and strawberry blond hair.
Father X was bald. Light
coming through the window gleamed on his skull
and on the chalice as his lifted it.
artist: Luisa Jung
Don Thompson has been writing about the San Joaquin Valley for over fifty years, including a dozen or so books and chapbooks. For more info and links to publishers