Pelosi

"Make us your bread, broken for others,"
Croons the choir, as perspires the weak-kneed geist
In flowing robe of kelly green in heat that smothers:
He who names It as he gives, "the Body of Christ."

He hums "until all are fed" until startled by a head
Over yonder, in the line, approaching fast.
"While others sing, this odd one chews on something red.
Diabetic? Cannot wait without repast?"

Looking closer, he inspects her, "Ah the lector,
It is she who mounts the stage and reads the law.
What fruit she eats? What is that pungent nectar
Of liberty which dribbles from her maw?"

Lolling open, jaw betokens what is broken
As she simpers and she saunters and she preens:
Nothing moving, nothing live, no silent scream is spoken;
It looks like noodles in spaghetti sauce with beans.

But no he hears a crunching as of bones.
Two tiny foam-flecked feet between the teeth!
He suppresseth sooth what synteresis moans
Of what souls her honeyed tongue hides underneath.

He gives It, and she takes and thwarts the res,
Kneading body in Body, sloshing blood in Blood,
And horr'r upon horr'r, fly buzzing 'round her says,
"Haec commíxtio fiat accipiéntibus, eh Satán?"

She grins a big broad bloody grin and breathes.
("Alas these deep red flecks, my robe was clean, in the song!")
And each voice, mingled 'gether, underneath the altar-tongue, seethes,
"How long, O Lord holy and true, how long, how long?"

With a corner-cutting cross she shuffles on.
Munch. Munch. Munch. Gulp. Belch. His face is wan.

Ben Douglass
October 26, Anno Domini MMVIII