This is my body.
—Matthew 26.26
Word made flesh,
flesh made holy,
blessed inescapability,
divine commitment
to these bags and baskets.
Did his fingers tremble?
Did he catch his breath,
just a little?
Did they think his hands and feet
different from theirs?
Weak knees, pooling eyes,
birthing wombs, arms around shoulders,
they speak. They shine.
Young men gunned down,
refugees turned back,
women used:
it’s their bodies we address.
Fruit pickers, coal dust breathers,
trafficked children,
prison dwellers―
we ask of them their flesh.
Wheelchair riders,
queer teenagers,
the sick, the gorgeous,
the black, the trans, the aged:
Christ says “This is my body.”
When you take the bread
look at your hands.
Feel your tongue.
Notice your breath,
in and out.
Hear his words.
Eat it.
Let it become yours.
Revere it, every instance,
its holy howeveritcomesness.
All flesh is holy,
all is God’s.
This mystery contains you.
Serve her with your body.