Fasting

The children in the attic play wild games of Hide and Seek, 

their laughter echoing like marbles skittering across the floorboards. 

Mother swears the roof’ll cave in if they don’t stop;

but what’s a little noise when your soul is starving?

Jesus himself—an artist of nutritionless disciplines—advised 

three courses: prayer, fasting, almsgiving, with a side of humility.

You see, one must hush the stomach's roar,

send the body to bed without supper 

so the soul can rummage for breadcrumbs in the dark.

Fasting is the mute button that quiets the noisy child inside,

the one yammering for cupcakes and caramel apples; 

it hushes the saplings so the ancient oaks might be heard.

Meanwhile, we chase dollars like butterflies,

net them and mount them in glass cases,

as if currency could fill the hollow spaces in our chests.

Jesus grinned, tossing coins to beggars from his pocketless robe,

reminding us that maybe the best kind of wealth

is the kind you can give away without a second look.

And it’s these two—the hunger and the almsgiving

that keep us coming back to the dinner table of divinity,

a feast without forks, a banquet of invisible wine,

where for once the deepest hungers do not go unanswered,

and the children, tamed, dream of celestial candies 

that no grocery store carries.