The smooth bitterness
of chewed coffee beans
pour from my father's
mouth as he speaks
to me about the Catholic
church. Something he
does when we drive
back from the supermarket
every sunday evening.
When we pass the church
where we both had our
first communion, where
he married my mother,
where he had her funeral,
he talks about the bones
of Spanish saints he
saw while in the
navy. He talks about Mary
while I watch the flickering
streetlights ruffle their
feathers before flying away
in the rearview mirror.
We arrive home and he
hands me the bread
and milk and I
put it away before
I go to my room
to wait for supper.