This Is My Body

A deacon offers the broken bread. 
Aware of awkward wait as bishop 
Receives the bread of ritual first, 
I take it up, thoughtless of blessing, 
Aware of deacon’s ordered moves, 
Of solemn quiet, of neighbor’s child 
Squirming, of hunger vague from fast. 
I chew, surprised by sudden savor — 
Of bread, not flesh, of flavor and texture: 
Savor against a full day’s fast, 
Flavor and texture of bread homemade. 

A pulse of guilt: no remembrance 
In savor, nothing in it to know 
The bread blessed and sanctified to souls, 
Just savor from hunger: guilt deserved. 

But that broken body! muscles parted 
By nails and spear, blood pulsing through: 
Textured flesh, earthmade, red blood 
Too thick to pour through flesh unflayed. 

A deacon offers the water tray. 
Aware of sharpened thirst from fast 
I take a cup, aware of need, 
Of children’s noise as consonance. 
I drink, surprised by sudden savor. 
The tiny cup of water/wine 
Washes not bread but flesh to flesh, 
Texture and flavor, celestial savor. 
Not bread alone, but with it water 
Confirms and testifies: I feast. 
I hunger and thirst no more.