top of page
  • Ann Cefola


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.

16 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All


bottom of page