I have known the connection of crackers,
crushed between teeth, marriage of wine and whistle,
all the bonds between body-bread and berry-blood,
a white table cloth wet with purple drops
from a gaudy goblet, wrinkled hands on a child’s head,
pink and purple Advent candles lit precariously,
melted wax on the freshly shampooed carpet
inside the white, suburban church.
But I have known intimacy in an old building,
mid-city, where the corner store sells
hot dog buns and cardboard grape juice boxes,
where my neighbor holds el cuerpo y la sangre
and never spills on the orange, duct-taped carpet.
First published in “Relief” (2.1)