I was never good at public speaking. 

Hushed around a Sunday supper, 

Who wants to pray aloud? 

I’m six years old, tight lips, 

bowed head. 

Twenty years later, 

I’m kneeling on a bathroom mat, 

begging as if I’m at the Lord’s table, 

or weeping at his feet. 

When does the word please 

become a prayer of its own. 

Chanting: 

Come on Dad, you can do it 

Like I’m reciting Hail Marys 

Or rooting at a child’s baseball game. 

Even scarier than death by rotten lungs, 

Is a full recovery, 

Just to return home, 

Sit on the couch, 

And drink. 

Guardian angel fly buzzes  

And bumps into the mirror, 

Vermin intruder 

Or godsend itself, 

Wings humble and soft as hope. 

I remember phantom Sundays, 

Stationed in my seat longest, 

Mom insisting that I finish my steak 

before I leave the table. 

So I drown it in ketchup 

and swallow it down whole.