Awe at mass:
five, six, seven—one more on the way.
Every week; same pew,
Dressed to praise not impress.
One of five I came up—
hand me downs; benign neglect.
Each with his place at table,
we sprouted like sunflowers.
In the catechism,
many mouths a sign
of sure generosity.
Do they judge my two?
Do they retreat
to a world I’m not in? Or—
am I the judge, imagining
life achieved not received,
an arcade high score,
not humble thanks.
A member of Christ’s body,
broken but healed,
loved as I am. But am I—
in their circle?