Cela says grace

First mouthfuls. What if
the Inquisition in its cart

were parked outside? We’ve
broken the grace, you, my

most religious and applying friend
always say at my prompting.

We can’t take back that first
delicious forkful, that knife

that’s cut into the fish, marked
with Christ’s thumb. You start

For what we have already received…
We laugh, lift napkins to our faces

you go on, for excellent cooking by
Lizzie you improvise to enchant

whoever’s listening, and we,
eyes lowered over our smeared forks

those plunging knives, the crumbs
of our misdeeds, turn back

time several seconds, settle down
the sipped wine’s walking on water.