Prayer after Communion
A POEM
Body, flesh and blood, feeling.
I have been here before, kneeling
in the snow, in dead-white zero.
This is a form I’ve touched before
and adored — a cooled cup,
a pool of liquid mahogany, a supper of the death of God.
Tensed for the tuggings of love,
I feel my way back, shivering,
past all the unnerving, icy touches.
Pew and kneeler hug me suddenly in confusion,
though they have seen me here before,
and all the while
the tiny glory of God
warms like an ember down within.
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Poetry was once understood to be an anthropological episteme, a way of knowing, if only through a glass darkly.
Who is this alive from heaven, hidden
Beneath the Church’s bread,
Who comes in sacramental…
Rocks that block the mouths of tombs
Give sermons of great gravity
On the benefits…