At church, the man touches his lover’s
hand: two crisscrossed
in the cross, signing
symbols in unison. They are unhappy
with Worship, the servings up
of Christ: too scattered
to soothe their weekly palates. At the potluck
afterwards, they steam,
recite the Last Supper like apostles
replaying the night. In the church
kitchen, incandescent lights
halo their greying heads. The eldest sputters
how the last “place” vacuumed up
their savior from the rug; his voice
vrooms the story; casserole crumbs flutter
from his lips. I, too, am hungry
for more, the pierced flesh
corrupting beneath tongue
each week we forget
to remember. What else
we forget wavers between air
and faith: words tossed out
with the wafer. Here, confession clears
sooner than incense. Oh, Christ,
what lives we have chosen to live:
we come still to the fodder of your flesh
needing figleaves, licking our gaping sores
as if we were clean
