Eating God

At dawn Mass is sung

in the cold and stone-

lined church. The mystic,

summoned to the Host,

falls to bony knees

before the altar,

shining white, prepares

to be embraced by

God’s heavenly kiss —

for the Lord does not

forbid her this sweet

nourishment, this,

Christ’s milk. She trembles

to sip at his flesh,

to taste and see his

wretched living death:

 

the blood which freshly

flows from his tender

breast, his bearing, his

delivery, all

humanity borne

and fed. For she knows

what it is to bear

and birth: to taste blood,

to bleed down in the

dark, to be broken

and spilled forth – this her

body remembers.

 

I am within you,

saith Christ’s flesh upon

her as she stoops to

take the Host. Hushed and

whispering, You have

already received

me, I have lingered

deep inside you, in

splendid agony

you have become as

me. I was sick and

you have cared for me;

I was dead and you

anointed me; I

was a child and you

held and suckled me.

 

Upon her tongue, the

mystic caresses

Christ, the baby/boy/

the man, the dying

man, Christ the body

given for her, Christ

the heaving mother,

Christ offered to her

in blood, milk, flesh, in

bread and bitter wine.