Communion
Two women stand still as statues
in the neighbor’s yard in winter.
Looking up into the bare branches
of a tall elm, they watch a large hawk
perched high overhead and doing
very little. Another and then
another passerby is drawn in,
faces lifted to the sky, strangers
otherwise, standing shoulder
to shoulder to shoulder.
We are no longer in a time of churches.
The world, nevertheless, draws us
together—the cars backed up
at rush hour, onlookers curious
for the flashing red and blue lights,
the violence of the torn metal
and shattered glass. There is praying,
so many prayers—as many
as there are harried curses—
I’d put my money on it.
Here in this cathedral, the one
that has no name but earth,
that has no entrance but here,
we are called to the altar
of our own being, only to find
that we are not alone.
This is the hope of wonder
and a reason for suffering—
to arrive where we are
in God’s sanctuary,
knowing already
how to worship,
knowing already how
to accept each gift,
not the least of which
is each other.
Catherine Kennedy studied creative writing and poetry as an undergraduate at Denison University and is a former children’s publishing editor. She splits her residence between Columbus, Ohio, and St. Simons Island, Georgia, and not-so-creatively named her two cats Simon and Georgia. Catherine draws inspiration from place and nature, which reflect her midwestern and southeastern roots as well as her travels, as much as her life will allow. Learn more at http://www.catherinestewartkennedy.com.
Amethyst Review 