Silent Meal

No one says a word
as the bread comes around
warm
yeasty
given out 
a half at a time
like the Eucharist
to pilgrims 
knelt at 
a rail

The silence is requested
by our trinity of hosts
Whose wisdom 
about such 
matters
is proven by 
the palpable calm
A broth
ladled out
all around this 
place

This 
taciturnity
is awkward for us novitiates
We sit in a circle of 
wordless
gestation
Not knowing where to land our gaze
Embarrassed by our contingency
Disbelieving it could be so simple

The only reports
are
the chewing of asparagus
the pouring of Chardonnay
and a 
hoot owl 
across the road
either 
adding more noise 
to the cacophony of the planet
or singing 
a Song 
we are too hurried to know

It goes on like this for a time
creatures
celebrating
the Creator's
kindness
It presents as
intimidating
It soon proves
liberating

I hear the sound of my body's worship

Then she breaks the silence
This stranger in the corner of the circle
Who is this
who tramples on our hosts' request?
She merely wants to know 
why some have quiche
and others a stew 
with spinach 
and 
sausage

Instantly my stew and I 
become 
Pharisees
Silently insisting 
on the strict rule of Law
The sausage and spinach whisper
that
Something must be said
about this stark
violation

Let Her Speak
my bread instructs us
staring up at me
from the patten
in my lap
Let her break the silence 
and know she is still 
alive
Grant her 
In your own heart at least
the dignity of inquiry
For whatever else may be lost
her synapses still 
perform
with the confidence
of a tightrope walker
up on that 
taunt line 
stretched across
what little 
remains 
below

Besides
Curiosity 
is the engine 
of living

Now tutored
and 
humbled
we suppose
My stew and I
If any deserve the spirit
and not the letter
it would be 
the 
eldest
among us

She 
whose skin 
maps the long years
Whose bones carry on just below the surface
Who walks from there to hear
like that highwire artist
slowly
carefully
meditating 
on each step
Her eldest
behind her on the rope
watching each placement
Both 
worried 
and proud

Her mother
our Sometimes Silent Sister
knows better than we
the blessed burden of these mortal coils
and about learning 
to count the 
days
That's why 
she eats 
with laboratory precision
Every forkful
now
a balancing act
a placement of the Host

The circle returns to silence
the Mystery of the Quiche
now resolved

And I return to the hoot owl 
across the road
making love
for God
And the sound of this bread
Wiser than I
Soaked in stew
Teaching all spinach souls
Giving itself
for me
in mastication
inside
my
kneeling
mouth