Intinction

by Wayne R Bornholdt

On this day,
I will wash my hands
scrub a life-time
of mourning, miles of grief
the daily premonitions

Will this day be the day
I scrape away the last blemish?
Empty the vial
stand for a scattered moment
fall again and crawl away?

I pour myself into wine
and water, the lost
unholy body inedible
arms unable to reach
the safety of the silver rim

I decide to float face up
for a time under the veil
of the sinner’s blanket
between the soaked sides
unscaleable

To possess this bloody pond
is letting go, letting the angel-leeches
attach and empty the broken weight
of chains, sucked through
their winged-teeth

Lifted up, held by tremor-laden
hands, I reach out for
a broken blessed feast,
six crumbs short, seven drops shy
of intinction now carried unseen

To the hungry leopard, I grasp
a tooth, kiss it, eat the slivers
of its last meal—sated,
I can rest beneath
the panting tongue and dream

of lakes, the communion trough
where we lap water-life
bathe the terror turned inert
splash the singing gazelles lying
upon the pillows of sleeping lions

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Wayne Bornholdt is a retired bookseller. He holds degrees in philosophy and theological studies. He lives in West Michigan with his wife, three Golden Retrievers and stacks of unread books.