At boarding school, I
the only Jew; the only
son of Abraham.
By fiat Baptist
come Sunday mornings.

Trays passed;
body and blood
from box to box—
bread, then wine.
The preacher robed
Genevan black
spoke of host.

Am I invited?    
What kind of celebration may I attend?
Infant fore-skinned, how do I belong?

Dressed in charcoal Sunday grey
we’d walk from school
and file into latch-box pews.
The trees koyo, then bare,
then budding green:
resurrection nature’s idiom.

Unbaptized, unshriven, unsaved,
I learned hymns
and prayed, chewed, swallowed god.

Who bakes holy matzo?
Jesus’s body. Mary Magdalene?

Does god love a party crasher?
Bring my own bitter herbs,
walk roads that do not pass
Damascus or Calvary.
After church we’d share
hard apple cider and laugh
at girls who squirmed
to look.

There were a few
I would invite
had I but known
the party’s moment,
its final destination.

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About the Author

Sometimes Ken Weene writes to exorcise demons. Sometimes characters in his head demand to be heard. Sometimes he writes hoping what he has to say might amuse or inform. Mostly, however, he writes because it is a cheaper addiction than drugs, an easier than going to the gym, and a more sociable outlet than sitting at McDonald's drinking coffee with other old farts: in brief it keeps him a bit younger and more alive. The result has been a lot of words.

Kenneth Weene
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