by J.P. Grasser
You have thought the same thing, church-wise,
About inserting the me into it. There’s the guise
With the prayer we trespass through, our words
Strangers in territory we can’t remember: the Lord’s
Prayer, lulled in unison, a blent, near-demonic chant.
Then the transfiguration, what with the cannibalism
Too. What about me? Take me, Eat me. It goes on,
But you can’t see it. At eight, with my mother’s long
Hours, I went to pottery summer camp. I’d spin
The wheel, clay action-painting itself wetly, thinly,
All over my apron skin. Mrs. Rosa said, at snack-time,
Try to peel the grape before you eat it, I’m not lying,
It’s a totally different fruit. We think the exposed flesh
Looked like heat particles, jarring one another as redress,
Above summer asphalt. Which is what the crucified
Thief’s legs must’ve done too, a twitchy and purified
Two-step in plain air. It’s not blasphemy, here’s why:
There are patterns at work here, and I am pride-less.
Because I can’t see it either, is the truest thing
About it, and maybe an idea is just an offering
To take from me, to eat from mine or whoever’s
Cupped palms, and for a while be thought whole.
Then you bite my shoulder, your body less form
Than idea, and my skin, my wafer-thin skin, torn again.
Read J.P. Grasser’s “Honeycomb”
Read, watch, and hear more in our current issue