Tag: Communion

Two Poems by Ann Kammerer

~ ONE ART ~ 3 Comments

Little Veils

When we were little,
me and Janie
wore veils to mass—
white ones,
lacy ones,
triangular ones
that Mom
pinned in place
with thin metal clips
so they’d stay put
and wouldn’t slip
from our fine yellow hair.

We wore percale dresses, too—
the same one every Sunday,
matching ones from Sears
with tiny white flowers,
a Peter Pan collar,
and a deep blue sash
with a fake satin sheen.

Mom said to hurry
so I helped Janie dress.
She said Dad got mad
when we dawdled
and made him late
to church.
When we were done—
our sashes bow-tied
and our white Mary Janes
all buckled and shined—
we went to find Mom
as she smoked
in the bathroom,
a hairbrush, bobby pins,
and veils on the sink.

“About time.”
She took a last puff
and tossed her Viceroy
into the toilet,
making it singe.
“Janie first.”

Janie backed away.
Mom grabbed her arm
and pushed her down
on the edge of the tub.

“Good little girls
do what they’re told
Hold still.”

Mom laid the veil
over a knot of snarls,
wedging bobby pins
over and under
each side.

“There,” she said.
“All done.”

Janie sobbed.
I wiped her face
with toilet paper.
Mom stood behind me,
pinning down my veil,
poking my scalp,
telling me to be quiet
when I said it hurt.

“There,” she said.
“You’re done, too.”

She touched my cheek,
then Janie’s,
saying it was OK now.
Fiddling with a loose button
on her faded rose dress,
she draped a black veil
over her wavy brown hair,
smoothing the lacy ends
over her shoulders.

“See,” she said.
“I have to wear one, too,
just like you.”

Mom put on lipstick
and feathered on rouge.
She dabbed tan make-up
on the deep gray circles
beneath her eyes,
then over the
green-purple bruises
on her wrists—
the ones she got when Dad
slammed down his drink
and grabbed her,
pushing her
against the wall.

“We were just
dancing,” she had said later
when she tucked us in bed,
her hair falling over her eyes
as she kissed us goodnight.
“He does that sometimes.
With me. After he has
a bad day at work.”

*

Communion

We always sat
in the same order
in the same pew
at the same mass
at St. Lucy’s.

Dad slid in first,
Mom second,
holding Janie’s hand.
I got in next,
my bare legs sticking
to the unvarnished pew.
My big brother Freddie
sat beside me and
my other brother Charlie
sat at the end,
his head swiveling
as he looked for Theresa,
the Italian girl whose dad
owned Armando’s,
Dad’s favorite bar.

“Quit fidgeting.”
Mom poked me
as I fiddled with my veil
and clicked the beaded latch
on my vinyl purse.
Janie wiggled, too,
kicking the back of the pew.
Dad winced and bent over,
one hand on his stomach,
the other pressed
to his forehead.

“He doesn’t
feel good,” Mom sighed.
“I don’t either.”

Her breath smelled
fruity and sour,
just like it had last night
when she tucked
me and Janie in bed.

“We should’ve skipped
mass,” she said.
“Your dad.
He’s in no condition.”

Mom rubbed her eyes
and licked her dry lips.
The pipe organ echoed
as a boy in a white robe
carried a jeweled crucifix
down the center aisle.
Two boys followed
clutching lit candles.
A third swung
an ornate brass bowl
on a chain,
spewing spicy smoke.
The priest came last,
draped in brilliant sateen,
his hands clasped
atop the copper filagree
embroidered on his robe.

Sun poured through
the stained-glass windows
as the boys reached the altar
and placed the cross
and candles beside
a small, pearled tabernacle
with a golden dome.
The priest stepped up
and raised his arms.
We all stood
in prayer.

“Stand up.”
Mom kicked Dad
in the shin,
but he didn’t move,
mumbling we’d all
be sitting back down
anyway.

“See.”
He muttered prayers
as we all sat and stood
then sat again,
just like he said.
Opening our hymnals,
we sang and prayed
to a father and son
and holy ghost,
then knelt
to bow our heads.

The priest chanted.
The altar boys rang bells.
People rose
from their pews
to walk single file
and kneel at a railing
by the altar.
Folding their hands
they closed their eyes
and opened their mouths,
the priest placing wafers
on their tongues
before they got up
and filed back
to their seats.

“It’s our turn now, right?”
Freddie nudged Charlie.

“Yeah, yeah,” Charlie said.

They stumbled out,
webbing their hands
beneath their chins.

“Wait for me,” I said.
“I want a cookie, too.”

When I started to scooch,
Mom grabbed my sash,
tugging me back.

“No,” she said.
“You can’t go.”

She said I was
too little,
that Janie was
too little, too,
that the boys
were the only ones
who could go
to communion
since she and Dad
had been bad
and missed confession.

“We’ll go next Sunday,” she said,
“after we say a few
Hail Marys and Our Fathers
to get rid of our sins.”

*

Ann Kammerer lives near Chicago, and is from Michigan. Her short fiction and poetry is typically set in the ‘60s, ‘70s, and ‘80s, and examines the tensions and ideals of people living in the rustbelt. She has published fiction and poetry in literary magazines and anthologies, and has five poetry collections through independent small presses. You can find her recent or upcoming work in Fictive Dream, ONE ART, Chiron Review, The Broken Spine, 10 by 10 Flash, Open Arts Forum, Cold Caller Magazine, Cajun Mutt Press, and at annkammerer.com

Two Poems by Dolo Diaz

~ ONE ART ~ Leave a comment

Starbucks Impostor

For years I’d been Susan.
My real name unpronounceable
to them, a dry “r” they wet and sloth.
Saliva spilling into my coffee.

Then the wait was so long at this one store
that I used the app to pre-order.
There was a cup waiting for me,
small non-fat cappuccino,
with my real name printed.
I reached but recoiled.

I looked around at the other customers,
wondering who else was under cover,
who laid bare. I grabbed the cup and
tossed it, discreetly.

Then shuffled to the long line,
gaze on the ground,
to order a small nonfat cappuccino
for Susan.

*

Communion

He would place it on my tongue
with reverence; he was a holy man,
no doubt. No eye contact—he
knew all my sins—
bound on earth.

I would do a one-eighty,
return to my seat, kneel
in the hard chestnut.

Downcast gaze, the tip of my tongue
slowly peeling the wet wafer
from the roof of my mouth.

This is God, stuck to
the roof of my mouth—
nothing else was coming loose.

*

Dolo Diaz is a scientist / poet with roots in Spain, currently residing in California. Her work has appeared/forthcoming in ONE ART, The Summerset Review, Third Wednesday, The Lake, among others. dolodiaz.com

Three Poems by Karly Randolph Pitman

~ ONE ART ~ 6 Comments

Let

after Jane Kenyon’s Let Evening Come

Let the brown tabby meow, paw
at your door and pull you out
of bed hours before you feel ready.

Let the hot sun bake the sweet
potato plants as you measure what
to water or what to let die.

Let the body buck from another wave
of dizziness as you learn a new way
to ride the body’s labor pains.

Let the hollow of grief come up for air
so the tears that are stuck in the corners
of your eyes can drop their heavy load.

Let the fridge empty. Let the dust gather
on the bookshelves. Let the to do list
unravel in the light of what is possible
instead of what you hoped would be.

Let help come. Let friends bring you pots
of soup, jars of tea and prayer flags, tied
on a string. Let the doctor insert the needle
that makes you tremble.

Let yourself fall. Let yourself weep. Let
yourself shatter, let yourself know you
don’t have to be any braver than you
know how to be.

The early rising brings morning flowers.
Sweet potatoes bring grace. The body
brings breath. Grief brings tenderness.
Unraveling brings silence. Help brings ease.
Shattering brings relief from holding up
what needed to break.

Let everything happen to you, Rilke says –
as if you’re given a choice, as if let is optional.
What if everything happens? What if this
is what I can trust? What if this is the way
that trust holds me?

*

Opening the Package

The medicine arrives
wrapped in paper, tucked
with care like a present,
folded triangles laid on top
of each other so that
opening the package
feels like receiving
a gift. You feel blessed
by this extra attention,
as if the person sending
you your medicine
whispered a prayer
on your behalf
as they packed up
the box for shipping,
a prayer that arises
to meet you now
as you slice open
the box with a knife,
spread apart each
cardboard flap,
and unwrap each vial
with a yes, yes.

*

Communion

This is my body, broken for you.
These words arise as I greet
the morning sun, my bare feet
sinking into the soft earth. All
my dead lie below me, their bones
feeding the soil, feeding the plants
and animals that make their way
to my dinner plate. Today I feel
their strength beneath me, holding
me up. Others have walked before
me. Others have shared my sorrow
and struggles. Others have wept
my tears. “Help me,” I pray,
offering myself to their bodies,
to the soil that grows me, to the sun
that warms my skin. Their bodies
were broken, too. They knew pain
and illness, loss and grief. They knew
the sting of betrayal and the ache
of failed dreams. I feel their broken
open bodies underneath me, the
cracked seeds of their hearts, each
body given to me this day so I may
rise, resurrected, to live.

*

Karly Randolph Pitman is a writer, teacher, poet, presenter, and mental health facilitator who helps people nurture a more compassionate relationship with their struggles. She’s the founder of Growing Humankindness, a gentle approach towards overeating, writes a reader supported poetry newsletter, O Nobly Born, and offers writing and mindfulness workshops to nurture self awareness and self compassion. She lives in Austin, Texas where she’s cared for the underbelly of long covid and autoimmune illness for the past five years. Her journeys through depression and illness continue to soften, teach and open her. In all she remains in awe of the human heart.

*

Karly is teaching a workshop for ONE ART this month (July 2025)!

Writing Through Illness
Instructor: Karly Randolph Pitman
Date: Thursday, July 17, 2025
Time: 6:00-8:00pm Eastern
Price: Sliding Scale
Event will be recorded
>>> Register for Karly’s workshop <<<

Two Poems by Emily Patterson

~ ONE ART ~ 2 Comments

Communion

My first cathedral was black sky
and stars. I sat on the garden wall
at fifteen, dwelling in wonder

and silence, our rural cul-de-sac
so recently a field—soil stripped
to bald clay an illusion of newness.

I didn’t try to decipher constellations,
describe the cool stone beneath me,
or map words to the expanse and glimmer.

I kept communion with my smallness
inside the world. I didn’t need to name
anything, not even myself.

*

My Daughter Gives a Master Class on Walking in the Rain

Opt for every puddle. Be kind
to fallen leaves. Weave a trail
of song along the sidewalk.

Feel each drop: cheek, nose,
eyelid. Hear them prick
the pavement and call it music.

Greet the half-petaled sunflowers.
Remember where you once saw
a dead raccoon. Say you loved

that raccoon. Use your pink t-shirt
as a tissue. Be the opposite
of hurried. Gift your attention

to the gift of the world.

*

Emily Patterson (she/her) is the author of three chapbooks, and her debut full-length collection, The Birth of Undoing, is forthcoming with Sheila-Na-Gig Editions in 2025. Nominated for Best Spiritual Literature and multiple Pushcart Prizes, Emily’s work is published or forthcoming in North American Review, SWWIM, Christian Century, Rust & Moth, Cordella Magazine, CALYX, and elsewhere. She lives with her family in Columbus, Ohio. Read more at emilypattersonpoet.com.