Four Eucharistic Quatrains
From mind to mouth to heart, this Word — but what
Word have I, if my mind or heart is shut?
Thank heaven any fool can swallow Bread
Which goes from open mouth, to breast, to gut.
For all that I have split my pearls with swine
And been addicted to disrobing wine,
For all that I have played the infidel,
I am such stuff as can be made divine.
Son of the Father, mothered among men,
Reborne on the inspired tongue and pen,
Plucked from the page and spoken into fruit:
The Word made Flesh — made Word — made Flesh again.
The incense scatters as we leave this place;
The heavy host sinks deep and leaves no trace.
Oh, let me keep my purpled lips and lungs
Till I breathe God onto my lover's face!
To My Hat on Sunday Morning
Safari-cop Kato cap,
polyester unfaded when all of my black
cotton skirts have gone gray,
with your gold-glitter browband,
with sweat and haircuts itching
in the Bruins-hub stitching crisscrossing your crown —
yes, I need you today.
I need something prickled
with memory, battered,
yet sparkling, untattered, to cover my head
when I go down to pray.
"To My Hat on Sunday Morning" previously appeared in Lucid Rhythms in August 2012 and is still archived on their website.
Bio: Sara Bickley is a student at the University of Montana. Her work has recently appeared, or is forthcoming, in Every Day Poets, Paper Crow, and Punchnel's. She is also the poetry editor of The Germ.