My tongue
fishes out the Body of Christ
from my upper molar. It has lodged there,
nestling in bone—a ewe in the cradle
of a snowy bowl.
I’m told, Everything dies that it may become something else.
Food breaks down starting with my hands
which tear
and then the mouth—
blooming wet, craving the de-structuring of some
body, and then the secret
reconstruction the gut exacts on its food.
I know that I eat and what I eat is made my flesh:
–at first, milk
–then soft, overripe bananas
–and now, everything
I can get my hands on.
This wafer, why not an actual body
if it will become my body.
“The Word became wafer”
so much less invasive a miracle.
