Communion

By ZACK STRAIT

 

This is the body, broken for you, the minister says, placing
a small moon on my tongue. I pull it into my mouth
like a placebo and chew slow, grind the moon into dust
and light. This is the blood, he says, passing me
a bowl of dark water. I swallow the moon, take my portion
of the night from his pale hands. My face is rippled
inside the bowl and I toss my head back, slurp it down
and spread my arms wide. For I have forgotten
how bitter it tastes, being human. The minister reaches out
to touch my cheek and I swat his hand away, close
my eyes and try to focus, smacking my lips like a man
in the desert. The congregation begins shifting
behind me and I turn to face them, my teeth glowing white.

 

 

Zack Strait lives in Rome, Georgia, with his wife, Alison, and son, Noah. He serves as an assistant professor at Shorter University, and his work can be found in POETRY and Copper Nickel, among other journals.

[Purchase Issue 19 here.]

Communion

Related Posts

jacking up the house

Home Below Sea Level

By CLANCY MCKENNA
I grew up on an island called Broad Channel in Queens that was at or below sea level, depending on the tide. My dad’s house was one that was high and dry. We lived on Cross Bay Boulevard, the street which ran down the spine of our croissant-shaped island.

Old ship at sunset

June 2020 Poetry Feature: David Mills

DAVID MILLS
When I’m cursing them tanners under / my breath’s breath, I speak Yankeyfied / Negro / English. Gathered bit of limping / French and Spanish on a voyage // to Cadiz; anchor jarring the sleepy / waters of Caleta. Beach pinched / between two castles.

Magnolia Flower

Claudia Masin: Spanish Poetry in Translation

CLAUDIA MASIN
Anyone who’s been hurt carries the damage with her, / as if her task were to propagate it, print / it onto anyone who comes too close. We’re / innocent in the face of it, as a frost is innocent / of devastating the harvest: its freeze was already / there, inside it, like its need to fall.