At church, the man touches his lover’s

hand: two crisscrossed

in the cross, signing

symbols in unison. They are unhappy

with Worship, the servings up

of Christ: too scattered

to soothe their weekly palates. At the potluck

afterwards, they steam,

recite the Last Supper like apostles

replaying the night. In the church

kitchen, incandescent lights

halo their greying heads. The eldest sputters

how the last “place” vacuumed up

their savior from the rug; his voice

vrooms the story; casserole crumbs flutter

from his lips. I, too, am hungry

for more, the pierced flesh

corrupting beneath tongue

each week we forget

to remember. What else

we forget wavers between air

and faith: words tossed out

with the wafer. Here, confession clears

sooner than incense. Oh, Christ,

what lives we have chosen to live:

we come still to the fodder of your flesh

needing figleaves, licking our gaping sores

as if we were clean

Articles by Marjorie Maddox

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