Morning is my mass,
my holy ritual

burnt edges of toast, the incense
yellow yolk of egg, the communion

Standing on cold kitchen tile,
I begin a confessional assessment
of this new day
I forgive my shortcomings,
nod knowingly at my humanness

With solemnity,
I watch the holy procession
of morning rain
sliding down the kitchen window

This communion wine
is dark, caffeinated
cinnamon, the frankincense,
heaped in large scoops
until breathing in the steam
burns like smoke

Too hot to drink,
I swallow anyway
This wouldn’t be a holy ritual
without a little pain,
some sacrifice
of pleasure

© 2025 Joan Zaruba. All rights reserved.

Today, I woke up this morning wanting to kiss you.
I have a thirst to caress you underneath
white linen sheets.

While entangling our legs together
like threads of a wicker basket.

I want to stare at you, ignoring
the minutes that go by.

I want to trace your image deep into my memories.
In my mind, I want to accentuate
your eyes, your hands, your lips, and kisses.

I’m enchanted by the way
you hold me sweetly.
Your humble soul sends
sweet signals up and down my body,
causing butterflies to flutter in my stomach.

We have different ideas,
however, you are always in my mind.
But my heart enjoys being by your side.
All the goodness in me blossoms
and tingles inside me like Baby’s breath.