By Rich Boucher
I can’t give you the exact measurements
of hindsight, sorry, but all I do know
is that it makes no sense now, years later,
to consider that I really believed
I was drinking Jesus’ blood
and eating his flesh just on the say-so
of a priest who didn’t even know me,
but to maybe recognize my face
sometimes, on a Sunday.
Why would I have chosen to think
I was being a cannibal about God?
Why would I have desired to believe
I was the good kind of vampire,
with a deep-down body thirst for penance?
Why do drops of rain opt for striking dry ground?
What would a scarecrow do with a brain if it had one?
He would say, “The body of Christ”,
and I’d reply, “Amen.”
And then a miracle was supposed to happen.
But if transubstantiation could have been
spoken into happening that easily,
why didn’t I simply request
that the priest say, “The body of Lynda Carter”,
so that I could say “Amen” to that?
And then a miracle was supposed to happen.
The keys to a brand new Corvette? Amen.
A bank account that puts me in the Winner’s Circle
in Forbes magazine? Amen.
A miracle is supposed to happen.
The panties of my sixth-grade English teacher?
Amen.
ha ha hah LOL love it– what a fine poem ransubstatiation such a worhty word to toss in–excellent Rich
transubstantiation that is
Love this poem. But why wish for the panties of the English teacher and the body of Lynda Carter when you could have Lynda’s panties AND her body? Dream big! 🙂