Poetry

Waiting in line for communion

You stand. You do not shuffle, taking strides 
whenever gaps before you open up.

Where do you put your hands? Like actors do 
on stage, fingers relaxed, hands at their sides.

You look around. No, don’t. Look straight ahead 
and concentrate on what it all should mean.

What does it mean? Remembrance—that was it. 
Re. Member. Reassembled body parts?   

Be serious, you’re nearly to the front. 
You want to pray. You almost pray. But then,

you’re kneeling on a cushion at the rail, 
a small round wafer’s pressed into your palm,

and you can feel it searing like a nail 
hammered into your hand. Now you remember.