Bread breaks in between my greedy palms
There is no salvation like mine.
I will be eating Jesuses.
The two altar boys report my gorged blasphemy.
Their bowls are bare.
And the priest has nothing left to share.
He blushes rage.
His cheeks burst wine.
The angry altar boys now point and tell me that I’m dead.
They just don’t get it yet.
When I shove all the bodies in my mouth,
I am born again.
I will rise from the dead.
The congregation calls for my head.
Chad Parenteau is Associate Editor of Oddball Magazine.