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

Poem 20150216

let that small moment be still
when the coffee is hot and pure
when the bed is warm and the floor is cold
when the bread is warm enough to soften but not melt butter
when the radio plays our favorite song
when your hand seeks out mine
when your breath is in the hollow of my collarbone
when your eyes are half-closed and your mouth half-open
let time stop in his tracks