The cross-eyed infant adds

its wails and distress

to the liturgy,

which needs more Gethsemane

and betrayal by rooster’s crow.

During the agape meal,

worshippers stop by,

on their way to the merlot,

or a nice cabernet,

and inquire of the parents,

shouldering their babe.

While the priest strips the altar,

the mother is on her knees.

I know what I’d be praying:

for a miracle cure,

a life that exceeds the obvious,

higher functions despite the damage.

The same plea Christ prays for his children.