Spaghetti Dinner at St. Ignatius’

Hey mom, a meatball
angel hid under the stage.
Father Giallo ate it.
It was half his age.

Meats and cheeses,
Lamb of Jesus, Parmesan
of Man. Ragu of Spirit
is the rage. I played on

behind the muraled curtain,
Nativity hunger games.
The sauce thickened.
We made ground beef rosaries.

All was holy. All was bright.
Mom, turn down the Bible verses.
The meatball angel’s chili-flaking curses.
I can’t slurp my noodles right.

Garlic bread manger.
I lay my Saviour in the butter.
The sermon says God’s in
semolina, the devil in cake

and sodomy or soda pop.
The gallows beckon
sinners. Behind the curtain,
all is cannoli, all is light.

Let us pray. Our memories spiced
even savorier than baked ziti
Chef Boyardee in vestments could
a Christ-a-Roni microwave.

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