Holy Communion

What grace do I cling to?

The bread and the wine.

We pass silver trays to hold the divine.

My eyes close, and I imagine

Flesh and blood in my hands.

His hands in mine.

I squeeze so tight the plastic pops.

I feel his palms press in my clinging.

I graze the rims with my thumb:

I feel his nail piercings.

I hold my savior, and weep.

Weep that faith is not sight.

Weep his hands are in mine.

Hands of finished work,

Of blood and earth,

My rebel record hammered through these:

How could I let go?

I am the bleeding woman.

I am Thomas.

I am Magdalene.

Disease, doubt and desire, reach to hold resolve.

Where blood and water flowed, I know,

But I only ever see hands.

Flickering shadows of skin and crease and scar.

I dare not look up.

Not for shame, but for shape.

It’s only haze; no face fits.

My faith is small.

Hands are enough.

Joy lifts, that one day

I’ll pass through the cups I hold,

My flesh and blood transformed!

I will see him.

I will see them.

I’ve pictured them a thousand times:

My Brother’s hands;

My King’s hands, holding mine.

He’ll squeeze my palms,

And run his thumbs over hands of finished work.

Hands he’s held all along.

And I’ll look up.