sacrament raze as a child, you believed the priest when he said the sacramental bread was the body of christ. you wondered how there could be so many pieces left of a man who'd died almost two thousand years before you were born, and why they weren't hard enough to turn your teeth to crumbs of calcium phosphate and dented dentin. was that his eyelid you ate the sunday before last? or an earlobe? was the dark mark you spied with your unholy eye a bruise from when he carried the cross? and did the wine the adults drank really run through his veins before it emboldened them to slur all their secrets when they were sure you couldn't hear the consecration of their fear? you tore into your own flesh, expecting to taste honeyed bread, and felt a rush of blood fill your mouth in its stead. no tremor of grapes against your tongue. only the tepid copper syrup of uncertainty you knew would not fade with age. 260226 what's it to you? who go blather from