Mrs. Eder's Sunday School Class

Brenna Working Lemieux, Poetry

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 23rd 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.