Eucharist, April 2020

“Church!” says my toddler, pushed up against 
           the counter on a chair 
           so she can help 
mix the muffins I’d meant for 
our cancelled vacation: morning glory. 
Named for a living thing that won’t stop growing.

My daughter’s named 
for a Biblical risk, 
a preposterous situation. “Church!” she says,

           and I’m glad she recognizes 
the rectangle of cathedral   
livestreaming its emptiness, 
mics dropping in and out.           “It’s really good not 
to see you,” jokes the priest.   
The camera juts in, pixelates, as consecration begins.

I shouldn’t be                here in the kitchen, 
in worn down slippers, flannel pants, breasts 
loose under a political-slogan tee shirt. 
What is piety, really? What’s righteousness, now?

The tiny verger waves her wooden spoon 
over each empty round in the muffin tins. We’re here, 
somehow, with all those who dare to leave prayers

in the comments, with angels and archangels, 
I wrench out a clump of batter, lift the cup.