by George Perreault

am i become my own bedesman

telling memories like a prayer

 

children i think were given

palms and pins, home scissors

 

bringing the handiwork to church

to pass out at Sunday service

 

bigger numbers, the old priest groused

what would we get with flowers

 

oh we’re past already father

unclenching’s in the bud

 

quickened wordplay with the scribes

and a little hide-and-seek

 

and then,

 

you know.

 

remember on the mountain

remember what he said