We Eat God, But Not Enough

This appeared on a really cool poetry website called La Fovea.



We eat the cardboard wheat of our lord, not the rain-laden drupe.

We eat the bland cantaloupe in his fruit salad. But my host

is mango, or the joyful breakthrough of the mystery-glistening

jelly in the donut. My wine is sleet on the tongue, warm in the throat,

with the quickening effects of caffeine in the gut. My wafer

gloms onto my front tooth like spinach, so others know.

This god is the color of cognac, with hot water’s smell,

the coating of hot chocolate while rain sleepwalks above.

When I asked my friend if her senile great uncle enjoyed

anything anymore, she said “bacon,” so I worship that too.

I take my sacrament quietly, with barely visible motion,

the horse drinking from the stream, the sleeping infant nursing.

I know he is ripe when he yields to gentle pressure.

I know he spreads like a virus through cell and digit,

building strong bones and, one hopes, morals,

fortifying me in kindness, steeping in my lymph,

leaning back in the la-z-boy of my flesh, napping, or

kicking, screaming, elbowing me in my ribs on the interstate.

God, let me go the week without seeing those cold-coffee eyes

that follow my gossiping, my line-cutting, my exasperation with toddlers.

Make me that adjective that means full-of-milk, abundant,

sharing with others. Make my faith that mix of colors

in Nonie’s cookie recipe, cinnamon, ginger, clove.

Send me out full, supple, fast, to feed.


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