Communion
       

How not unlike Communion was first love—
you and I in the church kitchen, Sunday donuts, a dove
etched on our hymnals. You revered the law
like God, so we were hesitant when touching. We saw
each other's nakedness and knew we'd only go so far—
splayed diagonals of limbs forming a fleshy star.
One time for a joke you took the blessed econo-jug
of leftover Concord Grape, sad and store-bought. Smug,
you drank, then wiped your mouth, carnivorous, bloodstained.
Still, I took a swig. It tasted ordinary. That explained
it all. The crumbs of love were also small: denial and restraint.
You held one hand up like an Old World saint,
bowed your head, leaned closer to bestow
a kiss like the All-Mighty, who cannot be told no.

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Copyright © 2012 Joanna Pearson All rights reserved
from Oldest Mortal Myth
Story Line Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission