A small, easy thing

It is no small, easy thing…
this small, easy thing:

To eat unhurredly,
to take small, unassuming bites
to finish them and swallow and pause

just pause.

Wisdom is slow.
Truth speaks in this quiet voice.

There is greatness
in just this:
cool slices of turkey
nestled in a buttery croissant

Knowing that last bite
left me only a little thirsty:
a half-mouthfull of water
from a cup unneding of ice cubes
is enough.

Untitled communion poem

The grotesqueries are the point.

It is a cracker, yes,
but it is also His Flesh
being ground to grit between my molars.

Not the Jews (or for the Jews)
Not the Romans (or for the Romans)
but me
for me

And yes,
it is simply lemon tea (instead of grape juice, we’re out)
in a chipped mug but
it’s also his blood
in my mouth
and down my esophagous

that full warm tang
surprises me
shocks me
sickens me
nourishes me

I am a canibal-vampire.
And it seems that this is how it must be.
And so I offer my thanks to God
for it.