MomsBook_asof9.18.17

Outward Signs of Inward Grace
I met a sacrament once.
She lived on Mott Street,
New York City, and shared
Her neighbors’ poverty
But eased their hunger.
She taught me how
To be honest with myself:
I couldn’t walk the walk,
Not then, at any rate.
Another was a wild Russian
Living on the Madawaska River
Raising chickens and a pig.
“You have no sense of obedience,”
She scolded me one day
and made me fix
A jellied eel for supper.
But then she paid
My senior year tuition.
A third sacrament was untamed,
Striding panther-like and pliant
Across my autumn years.
A priestly man from India,
Who taught me how to listen,
How to laugh.