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I Might Commune
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The palette of Your pale body--
which we fingerpainted purple
when we crushed the skin
for sweetest wine
we will here consume--
This white round body between
two fattened fingers folds,
Your skin swooned white as snow
against our Flesh burned the hue of forbidden
Fruit.
Can I swallow
The fingertips I wished to kiss,
The toes I wished to wash,
and let them sink to the fire
at my core--
let holiness melt on my tongue
and Blood burn
all the way
Down?
Masaccio's Messiah is frail and pale;
He looks on my blood-blistered Flesh
And frowns
While I drink full of Him
but hold none of Him;
I leave the dinner table
Hungry.
[Somewhere,
between Roman nights and Middle Eastern mornings,
a man shreds bread
and sips wine
and breaks Death's fingers
at the knuckle
with hands the color
of the amber tombs
of insects.]
