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

Growing up

November 2020 Poetry Feature: David Lehman

DAVID LEHMAN
Science explained everything, / the workings of windshield wipers, for example: / “The darkness causes the rain / and comes from the rain, which goes up / to the sky and falls down again / on the windshield and the windows.

Portuguese Restaurant

Islanders

SCOTT LAUGHLIN
I welcome this attitude because it shows they don’t care about me or my tourist dollars. The massive influx of foreign dollars that floated the Portuguese economy but threatened local ways of life in Lisbon… I am grateful to be here, tucked away. I take the menu and try to read…

Cover of The Scent of Buenos Aires

Review: The Scent of Buenos Aires: Stories by Hebe Uhart

JASMINE V. BAILEY
In Argentina, the short story is not what you write until you manage to write a novel; it is a lofty form made central by twentieth-century titans like Julio Cortázar, Jorge Luis Borges and Silvina Ocampo.