Peckernite Poetry (Drei) 1

Washing Feet

If there is a smell

to being Mennonite

it must be part

damp church basement,

cool water,

newly washed feet.

If there is a feel

it includes a girl’s

skirt sliding on a polished

hardwood bench,

as the children,

left in God’s care

silently romp in the sanctuary,

while adults cluster in

hidden parts of the church

to conduct what for others

might be called a holy ordinance.

If there is a taste

a piece must be

homemade bread,

Jesus’ flesh,

surreptitiously slipped to a girl

by her Dad,

clutched in her palm, to be

slowly savored

when adults leave to

wash one another’s feet.

If there is a sound

it resonates

with the metallic clink of

basins tapping each other,

slop of warm water,

smooch of the Christian kiss.

If there is a sight

it is made up partially

of a girl peeking

at women’s feet

encased in

damp stockings,

unpolished toes,

smooth or gnarled,

while they

stoop to bathe

each other’s feet.

Mennonite High School Revival

Did you know

I had to grip my chair

until my knuckles were white

in order

NOT

to go up front

and confess

non-existent sin?

The flow of youth was so strong it created a vacuum

pulling each child to the front of the chapel

on to the stage and to the temporarily tacked

together cross.

Children

(still in grace)

inspect their

minor infractions,

finding fatal flaws.

Why none of the adults ringing the room?

Are they without sin?

Will someone tell my parents?

Sure, I’m saved?

Communion

There are different ways

of eating Christ’s body and

drinking His blood.

I prefer the metaphor

demonstrated

with a hunk pulled

from warm yeast

bread baked in early

morning by a

Mennonite Mother,

washed down with a

shot of

homemade

grape juice

to the literal

tart shot

of wineblood,

a piece of

paperflesh

sticking to my

tongue.