Mrs. Eder’s Sunday School Class

Never mind that her fingers bow backwards,

they’re so lithe, that the bones below her skin

spoke like umbrella ribs, that the bible’s onion-skin

pages arch at her touch; James gazes at the crumbling

piano and Jeremy glues his eyes to the hall door,

tensed to shout when the tray of animal crackers

and juice arrives. Never mind that these passages line

her soul—I shall not want and yea, though I walk—

nor that she teared up yesterday planning this lesson,

remembering the first time she’d read the 23^rd Psalm

and understood it (just after she’d lost her second

and the doctor began to speak of alternatives) and she’d

so looked forward to guiding her class through it.

Kim asks to use the bathroom, Hanna wants the window

open, and when Jeremy springs to the door and thumps

the food and pitcher on the table, what can she do

but let them eat? Grace, of course, after grace.