Flycatcher

The Sacrament

When I was five, I sat with my mother
through the cloying night listening
for the crunch
of his tires gnawing through
gravel. She kept silent,
thumbing the phone,
as I chawed
through piece after piece
of buttered toast and jam,
my gluttony of Eucharist. It was sacred,
our secret,
watchdogs in the dark.