Will prevent infection, my mother advised.
But when I stepped on nails, wailing from concrete,
she followed those spoonfuls with a tiny jar,
dripping eucalyptus beads for further protection.
Like Saturdays, when my pastor’s husband bakes
Communion loaves in midnight’s sacristy,
humming hymns and molding mysteries, yet
I pray extra blessings the next day as my lips
touch the bread. Afterwards, with its sacred remains,
I whisper third, fourth prayers in my kitchen
before spreading honey. I felt most sure of feasting
on Christ’s body at my wedding, defying the hell
