THREE SIPS by J. Marcus Weekley

a response to Espada

Millie wasn’t even named
in the church pews,
silver candelabra, crosses
just out of reach.

Several times hands
coaxed her pale body
in unholy places,
but Millie made no face,
while the girls with warm
hands whispered.

Millie danced with air in her bedroom,
naked arms cleaving space,
each step clumping time.
One day she’d give
me three sips, all for me.

Her father, an American businessman,
wanted to paint a mural
over Millie’s bed,
dabbed oil skin
of the hanging traitor
glowing in the sunset.

Once Judas twisted mid-air
and pigeons stopped and stared,
Millie poured the wine
into her palm,
held it out,
and bid me drink.
"There," she offered,
"Three sips."

Currently serving time at Chili's in D'Iberville, Mississippi, J. Marcus Weekley also knows how to quilt, draw, and photograph, and is teaching his sister about sashing strips and binding. His work is in from four years, Look Out Below and Other Tales, and Texas Dance Halls, among others, which may be found at www.flickr.com/photos/whynottryitagain2 or www.lulu.com/whynottryitagain.