It was placed in your hands. Not when or how you wanted it. But it was there. We coded meanings with our tongues. Carried laughter in our bellies. I kissed the ink scars of your shoulder blade. Call like the moon resting so lovely over you. We readied ourselves for private communion on that holy day. With sacred wash and nectar I produced an offering –-my flesh.
It was there and all for your taking. Feeble hearts but fumble and throw pearls mistaken for trash to the ground. Trash blows in the wind.