Junior recited the twelve apostles,
Sissy fumbled through the fruit
of the spirit, Grandma Nell thought
her mumbles were sure signs,
the gift of tongues, and Uncle Buford
strummed an old guitar and hummed
a ballad about the rise and fall of heroes.
Edna read something she called a poem,
words inspired by her fascination
with pockets. Blue-haired Ruthie warbled
love songs to widowers and bachelors,
promised hot cobbler and sweet cream
to lonely hearts and empty stomachs.
Violin and mountain dulcimer cried.
Dora fiddles with the microphone.
Feedback squelches and squawks,
then the voice of an angel rises above heads
of hungry penitents, falls like snowflakes
on shoulders, blankets the fallen
with strains of gloria in excelsis Deo,
makes for this moment on earth, peace.
