host (20171116)

the millstone turns heavy
powered by blood
torrents of thick red
jam coagulating where it pools

and there’s no grist to grind
only chaff left
from the threshing floor

but grind it does
the wheel grinds
it is all it knows how to do
and so it turns and grinds

we bake our bread
with rough husk flour
we bake our poor loaves

black on the coals
of our ancestors’ bones

bitter is the crust
with no spot of fat
to grease the pitted stone
that is our only sustenance
and nothing to wash it

down but overflowing glasses of
gall bitter from our own hands

this is our bread
our communion

12 thoughts on “host (20171116)”

  1. I fall in love with your dark poem again and again! I’m also reminded of Jack and the Beanstalk when the Giant bellows: “Be he alive or be he dead, we’ll grind his bones to make my bread!”

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