Sacrament
Emmet Martin Penney

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My mother forbade breakfast on Sundays, on Fridays
stripped our diet of sweetness, fat, all flesh save yours
on my tongue where it melted like bitter, stubborn

manna. I am told you involve yourself in our affairs,
that you understand. You endured the lash knotted
with our anger. You slid a man’s hand into

your wound because he was afraid.
I know your taste. I confess, now, I crave not
your Sunday skin, but the warmth of your hand

guiding mine into your unwoven side.
Let me lick my fingers clean. I want my stupid
tongue to know. But the bells chime, call your body

into the bread. I’m afraid it was foolish to deliver
our world, that I am one of its many poisons
painted in your image, that I was jumped into this life

with an empty set of arms.