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.
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