A sacrament stolen—nevertheless,
a body can be resurrected without bread.
The bread helps, the flour on our faces
rivers our veins with blood at the kitchen table,
at a confluence of progeny & the new
names I have for what I am becoming.
In paintings, we still gather even though
the loaf only ever rises with the bodies
& their numbers & the sun, climbing.
Now, every word I say must be essential,
every crumb made flesh & drop of wine
made paint, like the bread that is the body,
to recover what's been taken, we must rest & so
we spend hours of lead with eyes out windows.