Communion

  by Adrienne Dyane Lewis

Protestants don’t let the flesh melt

on their tongue; they chew it

once a month on a given Sunday.  It took me a long time

to grow accustom to the sparseness

of remembrance of the Baptist

church my husband’s family attends.  They are touchy-feely

with good morning and a hug

replacing the solemn sign of peace.  Catholics

taste the mystery of the Body each week; the bitterness

never becomes more palatable though

as you slip the thin wafer in,

hold it still with your tongue, let it dissolve.

Dislodging small, sour pieces

sticking to the roof of your mouth

throughout the service, you are reminded

of the vinegarations you must have caused others to ingest

during the week, the many ways you’ve fallen

away from the piousness required

and the belief in absolution that helps you swallow now.