The Eucharist smiled, 
chewing a store-brand cracker,
stale, cheap wine from the
bottom shelf.

Check a smile
between rot and revival,
singing in a whiskey voice.

Salvation holds a hand
with absolution, four
stations of the crooked cross.

I drank the marsh, kept a
fist where my hands should pray,
cupping running angel feathers
asleep in the back pew. 

(Source: inchesgiven)