Catholic Colloquies

1
I invite Simone Weil to dinner

and though she has a big heart,
she has little appetite. I’ve set
the bread and wine before her
and bowed my head as though
in prayer. She’s bent, but unbowed,
and stares into me through those
scary little round glasses, and I’m
exposed, defensive as a bird
in the crosshairs. Her bobbed
hair, pale face remind me
of someone I once knew, before
the war, someone who toiled
in the auto plant, someone who
really didn’t belong there. That
girl was awkward, intense, finally
ill. Had to be taken away. Not
a worker, maybe a student.
Always in black, an angular figure
flinging off her cape, stepping
up to the assembly line as if
she were one of us. Now, she sits
before me. Something about her
eyes, hard but kind, summons
me to a strange extravagance,
to the fulfilling final gesture,
for a moment reminding me
of something I wish I had.