On the knees of Sunday’s hem.

To trim away fat and grief.

I come, not because of Jesus,

not because of poverty’s righteous view.

Nor because broken window seals -while the dust settles through.

Not to be born again, and die of royalties -peculiar few.

On the knees of Sunday’s hem.

A praying mantis lifts her tentacles in tune.

For love’s bearing seed. Seated far above earthly cares.

To satisfy these wooden bellies.  For I have come to witness,

the birds dropping dew. I have come to pray like lovers do.

Yes, I have to come to eat the bread and the wine.

I have come to stow away.

My mother’s fears, for the sake of time.