Feast Days Mid-Lent

a confession

Feast Days Mid-Lent

We slackers speak of our habit citing
what we call “the hospitality clause”—
days when non-fasting visitors arrive
at our table, or when we are welcomed
to one of their dear tables. I’m thinking 
you might hear something of a slacker’s poor
confession here. The meat, the cheese, the wine
are all resurrected from the deep freeze,
the cupboard, the tall rack, and are returned
to their accustomed places near the stove.
I get right to work, allowing muscle 
memory to guide my hand attending 
to the brisket, the butter, beloved
cabernet. I choose to sin boldly, just
as directed by one Eastward-facing
Martin Luther, recalling that—among
heretics—he remains most near my heart.
I’ll keep my consternation precisely
where it should remain—hidden in my head.
It would be a shame to undermine their joy,
or, worse, to add a single bitter note 
to the savories, the sweets, the delight
of these, their radiant, holy faces.