By ZACK STRAIT
This is the body, broken for you, the minister says, placing
a small moon on my tongue. I pull it into my mouth
like a placebo and chew slow, grind the moon into dust
and light. This is the blood, he says, passing me
a bowl of dark water. I swallow the moon, take my portion
of the night from his pale hands. My face is rippled
inside the bowl and I toss my head back, slurp it down
and spread my arms wide. For I have forgotten
how bitter it tastes, being human. The minister reaches out
to touch my cheek and I swat his hand away, close
my eyes and try to focus, smacking my lips like a man
in the desert. The congregation begins shifting
behind me and I turn to face them, my teeth glowing white.
Zack Strait lives in Rome, Georgia, with his wife, Alison, and son, Noah. He serves as an assistant professor at Shorter University, and his work can be found in POETRY and Copper Nickel, among other journals.
