Roofers

by Ann Cefola

Roofers like crows they pick at the old roof’s tar, wings in shreds around the yard.

I watch as if priests who crack the host: This is my body broken for you.

Sky a wafer fragile and blue. Overflowing its chalice: sun.

Burnished roofers who slide, lift and pull! May I be worthy to receive you.

And my two dogs, who understand disguise; the homeowner, though absent.

Tonight he’ll open his fridge, take out some bread and a cold light will shine. He won’t recognize it

nor those overhead who drink sun and eat sky, whose wingless amber muscles proclaim Hosanna on high.