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.