The morning congregation sits in silence

for scripture. My father stands, leans

on a pillar. Mother has given me the task

of elbows. I hand them out diligently

whenever sleep arrives. He never complains

about the bruises. My sister chimes they match

the port wine stain God spilt on his arm.

It may be the guilt but we silently agree

our father is the best at church. During homily

an elderly man collapses in the back pew.

My father, medical instincts tingling, gallops

to the rescue, rides away with man in the

ambulance to the hospital. I remember the

piercing wail of the man’s wife. The altar boy

letting go of the wine. The rest of us glued

watching this live episode of ER. The priest

not once breaking from speech.