The blacksmith shops
and smelting pots
lie empty
at Zarapheth.
A widow
carries 2 sticks
across
the city gate.
The man of holiness
asks a little water
and a morsel of bread,
the last
and first things
of her crock.
Accepting his will,
she presses the oil
from every pour
into the meal
until there is no more.
With fire lit
in the stone hearth,
the dough is altared
and offered.
Take.
Eat.
Drink.
Remember me.
Commending her to heaven,
angels pass over
meal and oil
for the barrel and cruse
that never fail
to fill all her house
with
the bread of life.
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