Poem 7

First and Seventh
 
To the pantry with irreverence I said
Give us this day our daily bread
Then thinking of mothers with daily
Sons and daughters; wines and waters
Regretted…
 
But after a minute… when
My body ate the body was
The body forsaking the body I
Contemplated a diet of grape juice and
Toast…
 
Nearly the same until you remember
That the symbolism is cannibalism
And sacrilege only exists on Sunday
And all week I can borrow holiness unless
—shit—it’s Sunday…
 
Some Sundays taste like bread and wine
Others like bacon and eggs. I’m            
Not apprehensive over divine stovetop intervention
When it comes to breakfast at three…
 
But maybe I should be.