Why was I responsible for the Bishop’s funeral? Sure, I’d been attached to the diocesan office for a couple of years, but only because Bishop Pfister had wanted to, in his words, “keep an eye on me.”

Shortly after my ordination, he said to me, “You’re a real degenerate, you know, of course.”

What could I say? I nodded.

Between some paths where hikers crossed,
I was approached and iced by Frost.

You are my squatters, my kneelers, my benders,
my bone on bone,
worn from eight decades of demand.
Hours of kneeling on a catholic bench,
kicking the ball on a dirt road,
times on my knees scrubbing parquet,
up and down filing and sorting charts.

Nothing screams heresy 
more than cream and jam 
applied to one’s scone 
in the wrong order.

Mid-meal, I think of when
she made me noodles—iced
beef broth with julienne
cucumber, radish, sliced