Communion

4:00 a.m.     loaves on steel racks.The baker wearing a whitehat wraps groupsof seven in paper.

He tells Eneashe is Jesus. That hehopes to return to Bethlehemto kneed     bake.

But I want to be rebornin a small town. I wantto be a carpenter.Modernity spews sulfur.

We are too busy to be holy.My hands through Mary Magdalene'sbraided hair     strands quicklypalm     green     flat.

She hums as if to purify herself     as ifto flood the world     make it begin again.We make love. Our son     the color of figs.His heart     a sack of seeds     sweet pulp.

Eneas's truck permeates with yeast     warmth.The loaves are light     carried insidemarkets     restaurants he's never been a patron.They all know him     owners     workers.

He is bread to them     brown     pliable     crumb.Through the windshield a city in pieces     blocksof wood painted to shock     dust we are forced to become.Rain as fingers     thin     transparent     detached

from hands slides over glass or are they moon jelliesforced from salt to fresh     sea to skythen down again     trucks     buses     cars     roadsto be smashed     to die.

I've seen them in a film shown at the University.I wanted to live in that auditorium     understandinvertebrates     all else drawn in chalk.Not possible here where bread is only bread.

I am the same man even though the priestsays I am different     wineto blood     bread to body. The sameman     the same loaves     everyday tearing.