463 and 464

The most grievous of any sin I’ve done

was not unfaithful—quite the opposite—

but grievous for the faithlessness it spun

despite the act of faith that started it.

For my friend and I both arrived at church,

but I’d not seen him yet, so I sat down

at our preferrèd row, our pious perch,

and there was no more room left to be found.

Then he I saw, with no seat left for him,

he passed the row on by and sat elsewhere.

And if his joy from service should thus dim,

I will, his draught of hell, with him, too, share.

I stole the seat my brother could have had,

and this sin is, more than all things, most sad.

~~~

My house smells like onion and garlic steam.

The crock pot pops puffs of the scent throughout

the kitchen and in all the rooms about,

and makes my home almost like a home seem.

It’s far, far better than the scents of which

I’m usually around—of pizza rolls,

or corn dogs, or scentless cereal bowls,

or other squalid meals through which I switch.

It must feel how Hestia must have done,

her hearth bereft of dear Persephone—

for all but herself voided and empty,

good meals, and warm, but only made for one.

At least I am not mother to my home—

I am a different species of alone.