The history is one of
privation and power.
Cloistered sisters
learn the bishop
will arrive unexpected.
How to rise from vows
of poverty to honor
the institution giving them
the right to live
in God’s silence
and pray to close
the distance
between themselves
and mystery.
In the convent
kitchen a rush
to glean what
their austerity
availed—cacao,
chilhuacle negro,
banana, peanut,
tomato, bread,
tomatillo, garlic,
cloves, allspice,
almonds, pollo
scratching dirt
in the holy yard.
I hope the sisters
laughed in their
powerless power
to please the dignitary.
The bishop in his red
vestments and gold
chalice is lost
to history. The sisters
in their dull habits
and ceaseless devotion
and readiness to meet
the day we honor
with each bite.
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