My aunt bowed her head and her lips found

My aunt bowed her head and her lips found

the grace the way water finds a low place —

no effort, just direction. The sound

of it was familiar. The particular pace,

the pause before the asking part.

I used to know those words. Said them

every Sunday until I was maybe seventeen,

eighteen. Something at the seam

gave. Not a moment — more like

a station going out on a long drive,

the signal thinning. I don't dislike

the memory of it. I was alive

inside it once. Now I just wait.

My fork was already lifted — I noticed that,

set it back down for the amen.

The food had gone a little flat

in the time it took. My aunt looked up.

I passed the bread. I smiled.

The words are still there somewhere, I think.

I just can't get them to compile.