By Sandra Kacher
I kneel among gilded Virgins and kindly Josephs
ready to receive the body of Christ.
A flat white circle sucks moisture from my mouth,
tongue probes for Jesus in the scraps
of wafer sticking to my palate.
Terrorized by Catechism tales—
the woman who caught the host in her handkerchief,
holy luck to tuck under her pillow,
only to scuttle back to church,
blood dripping from the white linen,
I look elsewhere for moisture in this dry world—
mouth open to snowflakes,
dew before sunrise,
rivulets trickling among boulders,
fog misting around cattails,
tears from my dying father’s face.
Copyright Kacher 2021