I go from house to house
With stained index cards
Detailing
My mother’s, mothers’ recipes in a plain wooden box.
With a Sunflower, my cousin pasted, on the front.
Fruits for all pantries and appetites.  
You don’t need to go to the store when I come to see you.
We’ll use whatcha got on hand.
And of course, if you invite the right folk, more with be provided-
the leftovers can sustain
Working folks for days.
I come when I please
I don’t call ahead.

This is first-century Church
The sawdust and pound cake.
This is what really got the Pharisees hot
For His head.
Walking on water, water to wine
These are all well and fine
But the High Crime
Is mixing with folks of all Misdemeanors  

And it’s still a radical act.
We ain’t FaceBook friends.
None of these dishes goin’ be on the Instagram.
There’s no MLM presentation at the end of night.
I’ll take Nanny’s pinewood box
Of chicken dumplings and cornpone
Cabbage and Collards
To the next tired lonely ‘ol house that will have me in
And we’ll practice resurrection again
Supper is on at 7:00.
Y’all wash up and come on in.

I am reminded of the ghosts of wars past.
The unknown unknowns.
Shedding blood for profit
Necessary to an empire of pretenders

When I see the desiccated bones of the soul
That died a few yards from the bent flag pole of the mutilated water station.
Blue barrels chain-sawed.
Under a withered live oak.  

“He stuffed photocopied money into his pockets . . .
Said the anthropologist, as she reverently swabbed the bones for a DNA sample,
“And sewed pockets into the jacket for his real money.”
Before gently placing the remains in a black trash bag.
Like the one I imagine Donald has
In his garage back home.