If it was a man that I loved on the cross,
Instead of Christ
How would I take communion?
Not with complacency, nor discontentment.
Surely with tears and remorse and regret
For one who wasn’t always dead and limp.

A man I loved: someone I touched,
Someone I smiled at,
Someone I spoke to.
Someone with warm blood coursing through his veins
Hair on his chest, maybe freckles on his arms.
Eyelashes, lips, ears, elbows.
Tears, words, hugs, smiles.

A man that I loved:
How could I ever be the same?
If he were to be hung
Bruised, crushed, pierced.
Dead and limp.
Hair on his chest, maybe freckles on his arms.

How could I walk out of the sanctuary
And pay for a sprite
And bend the straw
And forget?