(when the priest ran out of wine)

The priest, having blessed, offers the transformed 

Host to the image of our pain, sings to the golden 

Cup, and we for whom song is not enough 

Shuttle to the altar, to eat the miraculous–

Words become the thing of which they 

Speak.  Here is flesh, a dry disk 

On the tongue, and blood

For the chosen; those 

Who cannot drink

Must live 

With what 

They have.

I return 

To a pew

Stained by

The window

Above me:

The scene, 

A woman, 

An empty tomb,

Conformable once more 

To my body–and wait a better 

Time, for even here there is flesh 

To spare, but never enough blood.

Taken from the collection “In the Night Speaking.”