Work Text:
From the get-go, I knew I would never be holy.
But dear Lord, I was hoping. Here’s to the legacy of my father,
as imbued with love and foresight and spirit
as any man can hope to be. My brothers
and I aligned in rows, taking penned communion.
Every one, waiting for the sting of defeat.
He was not prepared for knowledge nor defeat,
the man always thought he would be holy.
He would stand gracefully, receiving communion
on his tongue like a savior. Our father
knew the truth, surely, but it still shocked his brothers,
learning that he was damned by the Spirit.
We each took in, with open eyes and mouths breathing deep, the spirit.
It burned going down, smoky defeat
sizzling on the tongues of I and my brothers.
We gulped sweet wine, praying for something holy.
The words we said were ancient, but father
always knew the meaning. At Communion,
my lone friend sat next to me. Through his communion
wafer, he whispered about doubt. How can one know the spirit?
He asked me; I shrugged and thought of father.
The sweet paper taste on my tongue was like a defeat,
cutting deep into my side, a mimicry of the Holy
Son's. Later we all stood silent as another brother
fell from grace. Often, there is no love between them, my brothers.
Often, even to me, fingers and communion
taste the same. The smoke that fills this room is holy—
the walls shake, light spilling in at the Spirit's
behest. Red is the color of victory and defeat,
cloaking every brother like the blood of our father.
The shared grimace across scruffy faces ignites joy that father
would never approve of. I know he has left the flock, my brother,
and he knows it too, knows my voice means defeat.
Quieter, sweet like the sacrament of communion,
comes another voice, swift and new like the Spirit
descending from on high. Little brother, unknowingly damned, holy.
The rest of us rise in defeat, knowing there is a new Father.
The echoing of voices is holy, more so than any one of us brothers
alone. Our shared meal is bloodier than communion, between our teeth, the Spirit.