Blood, body, prayers

I never understood my father's need
For church.
I never saw what it gave him.
Every Sunday, kneeling
Before a sour-faced priest,
Drinking the blood,
Eating the body,
Saying the prayers,
Then going home
And beating my mother
Black
And
Blue.

Older now,
I see he sought redemption,
Week after week,
By drinking the blood,
Eating the body,
Saying the prayers.
Yes, I hit her.
Not once,
Not twice,
But a dozen times, I hit her.
But I'm sorry, Lord, I'm sorry.

Older still,
I don't want to be my father.
Drinking the blood,
Eating the body,
Saying the prayers,
And coming home
And spilling the blood,
Beating the body,
Forgetting the prayers.