Communion Crackers

 

And blessed He was unto me, bisect

wafers as thin as the body of Christ

strung up for all the pew-dwelling

peasants to mourn.

 

Family is flecked amongst

the salt of the chapel, eyes downcast

at the stain of lukewarm Welch’s

on my holiest dress: but

in what way could the blood of

Christ corrupt me?

 

His body is so stale that I consider

the legitimacy of mass-produced Eucharist

crackers, wondering if an urn of ashes could

possess that endless multiplication

of fish after fish, wondering if an urn full

of endlessly multiplying fish could

solve our problems.

 

 

*

 

Erasure of Romance

 

Seventeen—

the hell with beer and lemonade.

Promenade,

on a night so sweet and far off

in the grim shadow of

you,

marvelously naïve.

On your lips, despairing,

dies your song;

rented out till fall.