Whit Sunday, blustery heat, and you
in three-piece suit to read the Second Lesson.
The day before, I’d excavated Arctic Rolls
from ice-shelves in the local store’s deep freeze.
We ate them reverently,
like miracles we didn’t quite believe in.
I threw up first and stayed in bed.
You soldiered on through hymns of praise
till hot air swayed the church
and God stopped leading you in upright ways,
an almighty adjustment that left you
face down in the Benedictus, eating dust.
