The bread was porous
like a sponge.
It sucked the wine
from the chalice
held out in compassion
taken in hate.
Kneeling like a stick figure
contorted by childish
crayon tracks on rough paper,
his plastic contrition
was as savage as primitive
drawings on a cave wall.
Chewing the morsels of the body
was sheer cannibalism,
a rejection of life, the denial
of brotherhood. It signaled
the depths of his own heresy,
his utter alienation.
Swallowing was like force-feeding
a comatose patient, the tube
scratching the larynx as it descended
through a recalcitrant trachea,
the breath of the body of Christ unable
to penetrate bronchial blockage.
The darkness was the forced burial
of a cataclysmic mudslide,
rapid, unforeseen, devastating.
Prayers, murmuring distant
pleas, seemed both his and not his,
grace, a single heartbeat.