My wrists
with their stumps
wave down to Sister Assumpta
in the nave.

I grow soft as boiled rice
Help me, Lamb-Boy, to rejoice.

While I’ve my own grainy masses,
red tissues in flames, my face
has neither tear ducts nor tears.
I share my obligation
with roof-nesting stares.

He epistles me,
lances his gospel in my side;
flesh credos from my thighs
in a private jeremiad.

At the bread and wine
I bite on one more screech
recall how daffodils
kissed my toeless feet.

I lift my heart
as directed,
wait for more wastage
as expected.

At the consecration
of his body and blood
I could almost believe
in a powerless god.

They rise for the Pater Noster
and I worry about my backbone (will
it hold for long?), rest my head
on coldness of limestone.

Agnus Dei, Agnus Dei . . .
I met you in the pastures,
the bleating of your voice
endures in my ears.

From the communion rails
none dares walk up to me.
I have a robin who picks
dead morsels from me.

She must feed her family,
all her beak-open young.
Anything goes it seems
as final hymns are sung.

Time to scamper down and away
before the wholesome crowd mills
at the doors, waves.

No speech in me anymore, no fight,
no testes anymore; O Love, be calm;
at least today brings sunlight
southwind like a balm.