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Eucharist

The Sabbath breakfast of righteousness began in Texas.
Washed clean, I joined in the banquet, stood stiff-backed
and wrapped my lips 'round each silver wafer,
savoring every sweet and confirming bite.

"Jesus loves the little children"

On Sunday, and every day, I dined at His table.
Consuming every respectable morsel
I gorged myself, stuffing in piety
till I grew plump and solid like a cocoon.

"All the children of the world"

Meeting Surekha I offered my holy recipe.
Each glowing ingredient flew from my mouth
and hovered like enlightened butterflies
far more soothing than the arms of her Shiva.

"Red and yellow black and white"

When we moved, we brought our ritual right along with us.
So at twelve, when I discovered fat Buddha
meditating in Pei-jen's living room
I shook my head at his belly full of lies.

"They are precious in his sight"

I was courteous when I dined with David's family.
While we waited for the angel, Elijah,
I heard Hebrew words bless Manischewitz
and swallowed hard their stale, vestigial bread.

"Jesus loves the little children of the world."

As he stood there ironing, my spouse defended The Church.
His words came packaged, clean and smooth like his shirt:
"The encyclical indicates God's plan;
men are the leaders, women should not be priests."

All my life I savored the words, tried to suck salvation
from the bones of Christ pleading, "Fill my cup, Lord!"
And though I drank His blood and ate His body,
though I licked clean the plate of righteousness,

I am starving.

Sharon Campbell Snyder

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