From Katie 

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.