Communion

This poem was inspired by the quiet violence of encountering God through a theology of abuse and self-abandonment. It comes from the feeling of standing at the altar and sensing that something inside you is being asked to disappear in order to remain.

—

The wine tastes like my blood—

not His, not theirs, but mine.

We drink myself dry

They called it communion.

The sun had gone,

wings of high birds clipped.

I stole their very praise

They sung into communion.

The bread tastes like breath—

soft, drowned in restoration.

I command its pearl,

It wears me to communion.

The black they donned at Jubilee 

conceals, carries their shame 

The casket to ignore

Amused them in communion.

The river flowed barren,

Smoked to Living gift.

In Neverlove, the grief’s true trial

I drank my own communion.