When you compare me to the ugly
Christmas sweaters, and wield me 
with a brittle laugh against your ex’s 
fiancé (“You’re marrying into this!”),
 
when you dismiss me as the punchline 
of an ethnic joke, too uncool to even be 
a dare, and let your middle-schooler 
eat, instead, the meatballs, 
 
don’t act surprised when Pastor finds him 
vaping in the bushes. I see it all from
Heaven, Gretchen. There’s Fish Heaven. 
You have the house, the alimony. A wine 
 
chiller. You have 4-wheel drive and want 
to speak with managers. Have you forgotten 
how they came, the great and great-great 
grandparents, to Minnesota? They only had 
 
each other, but their poverty was clean.
Gelid years of salt and lye and thrift and
Lutheran Jesus—so many sanitary 
 
hands prepared this meal. Take and eat: 
my body their substantiation, sacred 
as the bland communion wafers. 
What greater love than giving up
 
oneself to nourish others? It tastes  
intentional, like sacrifice and soap.